A Chorus Line of Art, or I'm an Artistic Vampire
Art -- whether expressed musically, verbally, in print or visually -- speaks to our souls. I have been moved to laughter and tears after reading certain passages, watching a play, or hearing certain pieces of instrumental music. For whatever reason, though, I am not moved by visual art. I didn't notice this void in my creative appreciation until I started dating, and then married, an artist. Though her, I've been exposed to more art, and I've realized that often, I just don't get it.
Lindsey is a talented artist. I like her work, but my ability to appreciate abstract art is limited to "Oooh, pretty colors." One of my greatest fears is for Lindsey to show me her latest creation, ask me what I think, and have the following exchange take place:
Me: Wow, great colors. It's pretty!
Lindsey: This piece represents the darkness and despair inherent in today's uncaring, cold world where people are all marginalized by those in power.
Me: I'm an asshole.
Lindsey: But you're cute.
As I literally just blogged, my good friend Glenda stayed with us last night. Glenda does quite a bit of IT geek work to help visitors to Austin's Blanton Musuem of Art enjoy the experience to the fullest. Glenda loves museums, and she loves and appreciates art of all kinds. She clearly gets it. Since Houston is home to a number of museums, Lindsey decided we should visit The Menil Collection after breakfast. I'd never been to the Menil, so it would be a treat for me too. I like expanding my horizons, learning more about art, and keeping myself out of the "asshole, but cute" category.
The Menil had various exhibits, and many of them appealed to my sense of whimsy and my appreciation of pretty colors. Then we came across a room of Rothko paintings. Lindsey and Glenda started discussing them. I saw only colors. I liked the way the colors were paired and blended on some of the paintings, but that's it. Nothing more. Lindsey and Glenda clearly saw much more and started to discuss it. I listened in and tried very hard to see what they saw. I saw nothing. I felt nothing. I'm not sure whether or not Lindsey was trying to make me feel better, but she said the paintings exhibited at the Menil were not the best at exuding emotion. She suggested we walk to the nearby Rothko Chapel. She said she could really feel what Rothko was feeling when he created the paintings exhibited there, and that it was obvious these were the last pieces he painted before committing suicide. She said the chapel itself lent itself to meditation while viewing the art. I was excited to go to a place where art could be felt. I looked forward to the emotions I'd feel upon viewing these paintings in a building and room constructed specifically for them. We walked in, and I was surprised to feel. Nothing.
The Rothko Chapel is an amazing room in which some very large pieces are displayed. Rothko worked with architects to design a venue constructed and lighted specifically for the pieces commissioned to hang there. People talk about the amazing feeling they have when they leave the chapel. My immediate thought upon entering the room was "This is it?" A large group of people was seated in the middle of the room listening to a docent describe the room, the building and the art. Admittedly, a large group of people and loud conversation did detract from the meditative nature of the chapel, so I wasn't upset yet.
I walked around the room as the large group dispersed, and Lindsey and Glenda seated themselves on a mat across from a set of three canvas panels. I was hoping that the silence and relative emptiness of the room would reveal to me the magic that others feel there. As I stood looking at one panel, I listened to some comments made by a woman who was looking at the same piece. She turned to her companion and said, "This one is gorgeous." I thought, "Why? What makes this gorgeous?" I looked harder. I listened to them whisper their impressions. I looked at the piece again. I squinted at the piece. I tried to see and feel something. Like Diana Morales in A Chorus Line, I dug right down to the bottom of my soul to see what I had inside. I dug right down to the bottom of my soul, and I tried. But I felt nothing. I was dejected.
I rejoined Lindsey, who asked me what I thought. I looked at her and replied simply, "I think a piece of my soul is missing." After assuring me that seeing my reflection in a mirror on a daily basis was proof positive that my soul is in tact, we discussed the pieces. I listened to what she had to say. At this point, the room was in its intended state -- quiet and calming. I looked at the artwork as Lindsey spoke to me about the different panels, but I could see the things she described in only one piece. Worse, my appreciation of the piece was somewhat like that of a child seeing a doggy and a kitty in the clouds. I've never been moved by what I've seen in the clouds, and I wasn't emotionally moved by the pieces at the Rothko. So many other people are moved by them and leave the chapel feeling something. As usual, I am not like other people.
As the three of us left, I was still a bit depressed by the prospect that the bottom of my soul was missing. I know that not everyone appreciates art, but that's not true of me. I do appreciate art. I just don't always connect with it, and in the end, I think that's the issue. I am surrounded by artistic people in my life, not the least of whom is my wife. Maybe, deep down in the bottom of my soul, my true fear is that not connecting with my wife's passion means I'm not connecting with my wife. However, the one thing I know I absolutely do not feel when I'm with her is nothing. I hope the same is true of her when I look at her latest piece and she hears me say, "Ooooh, pretty colors."
Lindsey is a talented artist. I like her work, but my ability to appreciate abstract art is limited to "Oooh, pretty colors." One of my greatest fears is for Lindsey to show me her latest creation, ask me what I think, and have the following exchange take place:
Me: Wow, great colors. It's pretty!
Lindsey: This piece represents the darkness and despair inherent in today's uncaring, cold world where people are all marginalized by those in power.
Me: I'm an asshole.
Lindsey: But you're cute.
As I literally just blogged, my good friend Glenda stayed with us last night. Glenda does quite a bit of IT geek work to help visitors to Austin's Blanton Musuem of Art enjoy the experience to the fullest. Glenda loves museums, and she loves and appreciates art of all kinds. She clearly gets it. Since Houston is home to a number of museums, Lindsey decided we should visit The Menil Collection after breakfast. I'd never been to the Menil, so it would be a treat for me too. I like expanding my horizons, learning more about art, and keeping myself out of the "asshole, but cute" category.
The Menil had various exhibits, and many of them appealed to my sense of whimsy and my appreciation of pretty colors. Then we came across a room of Rothko paintings. Lindsey and Glenda started discussing them. I saw only colors. I liked the way the colors were paired and blended on some of the paintings, but that's it. Nothing more. Lindsey and Glenda clearly saw much more and started to discuss it. I listened in and tried very hard to see what they saw. I saw nothing. I felt nothing. I'm not sure whether or not Lindsey was trying to make me feel better, but she said the paintings exhibited at the Menil were not the best at exuding emotion. She suggested we walk to the nearby Rothko Chapel. She said she could really feel what Rothko was feeling when he created the paintings exhibited there, and that it was obvious these were the last pieces he painted before committing suicide. She said the chapel itself lent itself to meditation while viewing the art. I was excited to go to a place where art could be felt. I looked forward to the emotions I'd feel upon viewing these paintings in a building and room constructed specifically for them. We walked in, and I was surprised to feel. Nothing.
The Rothko Chapel is an amazing room in which some very large pieces are displayed. Rothko worked with architects to design a venue constructed and lighted specifically for the pieces commissioned to hang there. People talk about the amazing feeling they have when they leave the chapel. My immediate thought upon entering the room was "This is it?" A large group of people was seated in the middle of the room listening to a docent describe the room, the building and the art. Admittedly, a large group of people and loud conversation did detract from the meditative nature of the chapel, so I wasn't upset yet.
I walked around the room as the large group dispersed, and Lindsey and Glenda seated themselves on a mat across from a set of three canvas panels. I was hoping that the silence and relative emptiness of the room would reveal to me the magic that others feel there. As I stood looking at one panel, I listened to some comments made by a woman who was looking at the same piece. She turned to her companion and said, "This one is gorgeous." I thought, "Why? What makes this gorgeous?" I looked harder. I listened to them whisper their impressions. I looked at the piece again. I squinted at the piece. I tried to see and feel something. Like Diana Morales in A Chorus Line, I dug right down to the bottom of my soul to see what I had inside. I dug right down to the bottom of my soul, and I tried. But I felt nothing. I was dejected.
I rejoined Lindsey, who asked me what I thought. I looked at her and replied simply, "I think a piece of my soul is missing." After assuring me that seeing my reflection in a mirror on a daily basis was proof positive that my soul is in tact, we discussed the pieces. I listened to what she had to say. At this point, the room was in its intended state -- quiet and calming. I looked at the artwork as Lindsey spoke to me about the different panels, but I could see the things she described in only one piece. Worse, my appreciation of the piece was somewhat like that of a child seeing a doggy and a kitty in the clouds. I've never been moved by what I've seen in the clouds, and I wasn't emotionally moved by the pieces at the Rothko. So many other people are moved by them and leave the chapel feeling something. As usual, I am not like other people.
As the three of us left, I was still a bit depressed by the prospect that the bottom of my soul was missing. I know that not everyone appreciates art, but that's not true of me. I do appreciate art. I just don't always connect with it, and in the end, I think that's the issue. I am surrounded by artistic people in my life, not the least of whom is my wife. Maybe, deep down in the bottom of my soul, my true fear is that not connecting with my wife's passion means I'm not connecting with my wife. However, the one thing I know I absolutely do not feel when I'm with her is nothing. I hope the same is true of her when I look at her latest piece and she hears me say, "Ooooh, pretty colors."