Frustrated in an Art Museum…
As a kid I saw an episode of Rocky and Bulwinkle where Bulwinkle becomes a famous artist by whitewashing canvases. I thought of that when I came across a dappled white canvas in an art museum last weekend: different shades of white mind you, but white. By the side of that painting was a paragraph on the artist’s inspiration, which read something like “I was walking down the hallway one time when I realized I didn’t understand myself walking down the hallway. It made me realize how little we truly do not understand the world around us”.
I’d agree that people do not understand the simpler things they do, and increased awareness of one’s self and surroundings is meaningful… but how is that message communicated through dappled shades of white? Other than perhaps a Rorschach-style interpretation where I present my own interpretation into ambiguous stimuli, this painting has no meaning. It isn’t even beautiful…. Art is a controversial term, and I’m sure even artists argue about its definition. Nemesis, who is far more artistic-minded than me, tells me that art is an experience: it needs not be beautiful or powerful or anything of the sort… it just has to be. Personally I think this person’s newly acquired master’s degree was a waste of Daddy’s money.
I’m not critical of all art: there were some beautiful or meaningful things in that museum which I found inexplicably awesome. I still find myself overcome with creative urges on a regular basis. Mine find their peace writing things I hope to put together for a book… which appear on this blog. Previously in life, especially in adolescence, I found myself writing journal after journal of poetry: fueled by teenage angst and a twisted childhood. The art I found myself painting and drawing my senior year of high school was anything but beautiful… or at least it was a angsty, violent sort of beautiful. Among my belongings is a painting I’ve been putting off finishing from that time for 7 years now: Amid an ugly dry forest are trees with human faces and anthropomorphic branches, dripping red from the crevices that should be their eyes, with yellow X’s marking them to be cut down. In the middle of the forest runs a river in complementary pastels… the trees near it coming alive, becoming human. By the edge of the river is a dryad-like girl who mostly human, holding out her arm to a male figure within the river. It unclear if she is pulling him out or he is pulling her in.
Yeah, my art scared people back then, as did my writing. But a lot has changed since then. Now I sort of look at living things, and especially the brain, with the sort of mystery I once looked at a blank page of paper. Have I just become needlessly critical of artistic things since that time?
My friend Lauren, who was the reason I was in this museum did a 2 dimensional sculpture in tree-like form, with prints of paper leaves coming off of it that the passer-bys were supposed to take with them. The leaves, beyond being beautiful prints themselves, had a link to her website, which promotes sustainability and preserving the environment. Beside the recycled-paper plumage was a bulletin board where the observers were asked to write down how they feel they interact with their environment. Lauren felt that if she let other people write out how they feel about their environment themselves, it would have a much greater impact then if she preached to them. Beside the bulletin board was a pamphlet that told the story of a fictious rioter of environmental rights, accidentally shot and eventually arrested for her passionate attempts to protect the world around her.
Lauren had something to say with her art: and I’d say it was very well communicated. The strange thing was that though many specific references were made to particular artists in the small graduating class through anecdotes, awards and even a blues song composed for the occasion, Lauren’s work went unnoticed and unheralded. I can’t answer why… perhaps her message is one her audience members are not yet ready to deliver to themselves.
Her school was a very elite school… or one could also argue an elitist school. I walked through the woods to a breakfast for the graduates friends and families, surrounded by sculptures and fountains and vibrant Michigan forest… which by Michigan standards, looked and smelled much more forest-like. It was gorgeous. The house where the breakfast was held contained many beautiful tapestries, reliefs and carvings, and plenty of antique chairs with a little sign saying they were not for sitting in. Only in the library where there were some plain plastic chairs used for their intended purposes, and I looked around a room filled with priceless antiques.
At the end of the day I felt very at-odds with myself. The days beforehand I found myself reading a couple new books and thinking a few different ways. Soon I’ll be away at a more prestigious university myself where I will be expected to become more cultured, more dignified… to eat at sleazy diners less and quit using words like cock and boobs in common conversations. Beyond that, most people around me will dress different, drive nicer cars… and though I might seek to keep those things the same, I can’t escape the fact that Cornell will afford me two rare luxuries: time and money. This may seem strange for someone going into an Ivy League Grad school… but trust me… those guys have weekends... especially for someone who is used to taking honors classes full time and working as much as possible to live off half the stipend I will receive at Cornell.
By my own standards, I will be rich in so many ways. But what do I want to do with an excess of time and money that I lived so well without? The money I can easily sink into my student loan debt… which will still exist even after grad school. But should all of that be designated to that purpose? Can I afford a little art and culture? Or are those just false gods distracting me from the life of service and simplicity I’d value so much more?
I guess perhaps I can be a different sort of cocky elitist… one who thinks she is better than elitists because I don’t drive a fancy car or appreciate drinking straws hanging from the wall, and the light colored calcium deposits on the floor on a light-colored background. I do hold that a simple life: one which consumes less and leaves time for the things that usually get pushed until last, is more admirable than spending money to fit in with those accustomed to spending more money. But what I can’t answer to myself is whether reserving hatred towards pieces in an art museum is righteous anger, or contrary to more noble purposes.
This a much more scattered entry… and I apologize… but unfortunately for right now, my thoughts are scattered.
I’d agree that people do not understand the simpler things they do, and increased awareness of one’s self and surroundings is meaningful… but how is that message communicated through dappled shades of white? Other than perhaps a Rorschach-style interpretation where I present my own interpretation into ambiguous stimuli, this painting has no meaning. It isn’t even beautiful…. Art is a controversial term, and I’m sure even artists argue about its definition. Nemesis, who is far more artistic-minded than me, tells me that art is an experience: it needs not be beautiful or powerful or anything of the sort… it just has to be. Personally I think this person’s newly acquired master’s degree was a waste of Daddy’s money.
I’m not critical of all art: there were some beautiful or meaningful things in that museum which I found inexplicably awesome. I still find myself overcome with creative urges on a regular basis. Mine find their peace writing things I hope to put together for a book… which appear on this blog. Previously in life, especially in adolescence, I found myself writing journal after journal of poetry: fueled by teenage angst and a twisted childhood. The art I found myself painting and drawing my senior year of high school was anything but beautiful… or at least it was a angsty, violent sort of beautiful. Among my belongings is a painting I’ve been putting off finishing from that time for 7 years now: Amid an ugly dry forest are trees with human faces and anthropomorphic branches, dripping red from the crevices that should be their eyes, with yellow X’s marking them to be cut down. In the middle of the forest runs a river in complementary pastels… the trees near it coming alive, becoming human. By the edge of the river is a dryad-like girl who mostly human, holding out her arm to a male figure within the river. It unclear if she is pulling him out or he is pulling her in.
Yeah, my art scared people back then, as did my writing. But a lot has changed since then. Now I sort of look at living things, and especially the brain, with the sort of mystery I once looked at a blank page of paper. Have I just become needlessly critical of artistic things since that time?
My friend Lauren, who was the reason I was in this museum did a 2 dimensional sculpture in tree-like form, with prints of paper leaves coming off of it that the passer-bys were supposed to take with them. The leaves, beyond being beautiful prints themselves, had a link to her website, which promotes sustainability and preserving the environment. Beside the recycled-paper plumage was a bulletin board where the observers were asked to write down how they feel they interact with their environment. Lauren felt that if she let other people write out how they feel about their environment themselves, it would have a much greater impact then if she preached to them. Beside the bulletin board was a pamphlet that told the story of a fictious rioter of environmental rights, accidentally shot and eventually arrested for her passionate attempts to protect the world around her.
Lauren had something to say with her art: and I’d say it was very well communicated. The strange thing was that though many specific references were made to particular artists in the small graduating class through anecdotes, awards and even a blues song composed for the occasion, Lauren’s work went unnoticed and unheralded. I can’t answer why… perhaps her message is one her audience members are not yet ready to deliver to themselves.
Her school was a very elite school… or one could also argue an elitist school. I walked through the woods to a breakfast for the graduates friends and families, surrounded by sculptures and fountains and vibrant Michigan forest… which by Michigan standards, looked and smelled much more forest-like. It was gorgeous. The house where the breakfast was held contained many beautiful tapestries, reliefs and carvings, and plenty of antique chairs with a little sign saying they were not for sitting in. Only in the library where there were some plain plastic chairs used for their intended purposes, and I looked around a room filled with priceless antiques.
At the end of the day I felt very at-odds with myself. The days beforehand I found myself reading a couple new books and thinking a few different ways. Soon I’ll be away at a more prestigious university myself where I will be expected to become more cultured, more dignified… to eat at sleazy diners less and quit using words like cock and boobs in common conversations. Beyond that, most people around me will dress different, drive nicer cars… and though I might seek to keep those things the same, I can’t escape the fact that Cornell will afford me two rare luxuries: time and money. This may seem strange for someone going into an Ivy League Grad school… but trust me… those guys have weekends... especially for someone who is used to taking honors classes full time and working as much as possible to live off half the stipend I will receive at Cornell.
By my own standards, I will be rich in so many ways. But what do I want to do with an excess of time and money that I lived so well without? The money I can easily sink into my student loan debt… which will still exist even after grad school. But should all of that be designated to that purpose? Can I afford a little art and culture? Or are those just false gods distracting me from the life of service and simplicity I’d value so much more?
I guess perhaps I can be a different sort of cocky elitist… one who thinks she is better than elitists because I don’t drive a fancy car or appreciate drinking straws hanging from the wall, and the light colored calcium deposits on the floor on a light-colored background. I do hold that a simple life: one which consumes less and leaves time for the things that usually get pushed until last, is more admirable than spending money to fit in with those accustomed to spending more money. But what I can’t answer to myself is whether reserving hatred towards pieces in an art museum is righteous anger, or contrary to more noble purposes.
This a much more scattered entry… and I apologize… but unfortunately for right now, my thoughts are scattered.
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