When I moved back to New York last year, I realized all but one of my close friends and acquaintances had left the city in 2020 - only unlike me, they hadn’t returned. I was determined to meet new people, I just wasn’t sure how. All my husband, Jake, and I seemed to do was sit at home.
We had a routine, and we didn’t deviate from it. Dinner around six - anything after seven we unironically referred to, sotto voce, as “late” - followed by around an hour of “together” time, almost always watching something, and then “independent time,” in which Jake went downstairs to play guitar and I tried to fill the hour to 90 minutes of free time before starting to head to bed around 9:30. On the weekends, bedtime extended out a few hours, occasionally to midnight.
I saw moving back from Vancouver - a place that deserves its nickname “No Fun City” - as an opportunity to change that. Jake and I were already legally married but had postponed our celebration during the pandemic. Right after the wedding felt like the right time. Last May, after the party, we spent the first few days of our “newly” married life navigating an immigration mishap at Toronto Pearson before arriving back in Brooklyn and starting a new season of Mad Men. I could already feel us slipping back into our old routine, and I didn’t want that. I wanted magic. I wanted excitement, to go out and about.
That Friday, I pulled up the Skint, a newsletter roundup of free or low-cost events in New York. I was going to find something for us to do. When I saw the description for Modern Whitney - comedians try to guess the meaning behind various pieces of art - I knew we needed to go. I knew we needed to go because I love stand-up comedy, almost as much as I love art, and because I recognized the venue.
Located in East Williamsburg, Pine Box Rock Shop is an absurdly on-brand bar that could only exist in Brooklyn.
At one point in the building’s history, it was quite literally a casket manufacturer. The bar sells vaguely Edgar Allan Poe merch. The bathroom theme is unapologetically raunchy, but in a tasteful way because the images of tits and ass are from vintage magazines. In the back, a ramp takes you into a room with a small (pine) stage. It’s large enough to comfortably fit close to 50 people, standing room only. There’s a handful of random arcade games, now a staple of most Brooklyn bars I find myself at. I don’t know what that says about me, the bars I go to, or both.
Modern Whitney follows a simple structure, organized into three acts: art interpretation, rapid fire round, and audience participation. The live, improvisational nature between the comedians, host, and sometimes even the audience is what makes each show such a delight.
During the first half of the show, a panel of three to four comedians sit on the stage with a laser pointer and spend anywhere from 30 seconds to a few minutes trying to interpret a piece of art that’s projected out for everyone, including the audience, to see.
Part of what makes this so enjoyable is when the lineup features skilled improvisers. The show soars when the comedians can seamlessly deliver both individual one-liners and build on each other's comments. Selected art is typically, though not always, curated around a theme, like depictions of suburbia or contemporary Black artists. The chosen pieces are at the discretion of the show’s art historian, who is also on stage and provides commentary behind the piece.
Improvised commentary is followed by a rapid-fire portion, the one part of the show that almost always changes. Some months it’s active audience participation in the form of a “choose your own adventure.” The story advances based on boos or cheers tied to a linked PowerPoint presentation reminiscent of elementary school Jeopardy games. Sometimes the show’s host might share an extended version of their material. Other times it’s another improv round, only it’s guessing the caption for something like a recent viral photo.
The final act mirrors the opening, but the comedians comment on drawings sourced from the crowd instead of museum-worthy art. Before the show, people were asked to create a quick doodle - there’s a small coloring station by the door - based on a childhood memory. These quick sketches range from sweet and lighthearted to absurd or slightly traumatic. The audience gets to fill in for the art historian, with different people quickly sharing the stories behind their doodles after listening to strangers try to figure out what they drew.
I’d like to sit here and say that I remember what the comedians riffed on or the audience participation format in the second act.
What I can tell you is that I loved the show and thought the host - a dark-haired woman with an incredibly blase sense of humor that seemed to match my own - was funny. The art expert on the panel did a phenomenal job explaining the art, so much that I felt like I learned (though quickly forgot) a lot in an hour.
What I remember is that after the show ended, I went up to the host and complimented the show. She introduced herself. Rachel. We ended up falling into a nearly hour-long conversation and then she invited me to go with the rest of her group to another bar. Jake was with other friends - a couple who had joined us for dinner before the show - and was starting to feel tired. He decided to go home, but I was able to complete more than one goal that evening: not go to bed until after midnight and find new friends.
That night, while walking to the second location, I ended up striking up a conversation with a guy named Leo. Within minutes we realized we had both lived in the same Chicago suburb. Leo grew up there and I spent my first year of undergrad at Lake Forest College. Later, I was sitting outside at a table with a group that included him and another guy, Truman - the producer of Modern Whitney. They mentioned, “There’s this board game group we’re a part of.” I left that night with several new numbers and an invitation to a weekly hang-out at an apartment in Park Slope.
A little over a year later, the strangers I met that night and later, through “the group,” have turned into roommates and travel mates, drinking buddies and psychedelic companions.
During the early days of my separation this summer, Tanu had an extra bedroom, so I lived with her for nearly a month, saving me from the awkwardness of still sharing an apartment with Jake before moving in with Rachel. A group of us went north, to the Catskills, renting a barebones cabin for four days outside of Hunter; we spent one evening watching Holes while offering a collective commentary. Michael, game night’s host, was last year’s Fig King of Staten Island, which naturally meant we all had to hop on the Staten Island Ferry one Sunday afternoon in September to support Truman’s fig cannoli entry. Unfortunately a Fig King no longer rules among us, but there’s always next year.
When I am hanging out in a group this large, I am reminded of all the highs and lows that come with friendship; how these highs and lows are exponentially magnified when there are so many different types of friendship to consider and navigate. Sometimes it is joyous. Sometimes you are loud and laughing, a pack roaming down empty Bushwick sidewalks. Sometimes simple misunderstandings wobble out of control, minor chaos just below the surface. You never know what will happen, in part because you never know who will walk through Michael’s door on Thursdays - just make sure to hold the buzzer longer than you think you should - and that is what makes it both exhausting and exciting.
I have made other friends since that first Modern Whitney, found other groups that I see outside of this, but none feel quite as expansive or wonderfully amorphous as this one.