Giving Mom An Art Attack

I’m a volunteer at the front desk of a well-known historical art gallery, the kind with marble floors, velvet ropes, and a whole wing of Renaissance paintings. The gallery is free, and I am a volunteer, which means I can be a bit more forthcoming with guests if the need arises.

A woman storms back down from the main exhibit hall, dragging her two teenage sons behind her. The boys look… delighted. She looks furious.

Mom: “Nobody warned us there would be nudity in the artwork!”

Me: “Well, many of the pieces are from the Renaissance. It was fairly common for the time—”

Mom: “That’s disgusting. I brought them to this f****** country for culture, not… filth!”

I glance at the boys, desperately trying to hide smirks.

Me: “Right. Well, ma’am, just so you know, those paintings have been here for over four hundred years.”

Mom: “So?!”

Me: “So if your sons manage to walk out of here with less maturity than a sixteenth-century artist, that’s on you.”

She remained unpleased, and I wisely suggested skipping ancient Greece entirely.