Wolfgang Tillmans at MoMA. No wall text. Pictures on the exit door. I can't wait to go back.

 The first thing that caught my gut when I walked into the Wolfgang Tillmans show at MoMA was the small black and white photo hanging above the entry door of the frontal silhouette a man sitting.  Perched above but not over us, patron non-saint blessing the proceedings with eyes we can’t see but can feel. Not obtrusive, just an observer.  Hours later after getting home I find myself thinking about that photo above the entry door. Do you ever get that feeling in your crotch when a work is alive and buzzing? I often feel like a piece is "there" when it hits you in your crotch. It's guttural, like just bringing you to the edge but not quite over it. I felt crotch-hit several times walking through the rooms, without wall text to obstruct the views and tell me what I should think or know. Through each room, the people in the portraits, the empty interior and exterior spaces, the dance music and disco balls in the small sound installations, newspaper clippings, small pictures scotch-taped up high next to wall-size abstracted images, hung by clips. Walking through each room felt like following a trail of breadcrumbs placed by the messiness and delight of this human existence and I would willingly be led again.