Pictures at an Exhibition
Title: Pictures at an Exhibition
Rating: G
Synopsis: Sam, Dean and a tumultuous day at the National Gallery of Art in Washington.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. But I do own a swell alarm clock that tells the time in 26 cities.
As long as he could remember, Sam loved art. He'd cut class in junior high school to go to the library, spending a couple of hours poring over richly illustrated books bursting with the colors and textures of art movements back to the Renaissance. His favorites were American artists, from the carefully crafted portraits of John Singleton Copley to the pastels of Mary Cassatt and the violent splashes of Jackson Pollock. All of them thrilled him, showing him there was so much more to the world than rock salt and iron rods.
For a time he even wanted to be an artist, but one bad run-in with a canvas and oil paints convinced him that perhaps his calling was as an observer. After all, art's gotta be appreciated by someone, right? And so Sam observed. He visited museums and galleries throughout northern California, from the Museum of Modern Art in San Francisco to the little art shops that lined the streets of Sonoma. He took a couple of art appreciation classes at Stanford, finding even more to like in what he didn't know about the subject.
His knowledge came in handy only once, when that girl from the painting started killing folks. But that was two years ago, and it wasn't fun because it was case-related. He missed being able to look at a painting or sculpture and just enjoy it for what it was.
That's what brought him here, standing in front of a Lee Krasner painting at the National Gallery of Art in Washington, marveling at the chaotic loops and swirls.
He begged Dean to make this stop. It was on the way to Richmond, he said. Just a couple of hours and we're through, he said. Trust me, you'll love it, he said, even though he knew it probably wasn't true. And when Dean finally buckled, it didn't feel so much like a victory as it did a reprieve, a brief window to those more carefree times back in Palo Alto.
As his eyes danced across the canvas, tracing the drips and spirals, Sam glanced at Dean, looking for the same wonder he himself experienced. He didn't find it.
"I don't get it," Dean said, for maybe the twentieth time in the last hour. "What's it supposed to be?"
"It's not supposed to be anything," Sam replied with more than a little tension in his voice. "Abstract expressionism is about the process itself. It's a representation of the creative process."
Dean cocked his head to one side. "I coulda done that." It was the twentieth time he'd said that, too.
Dean had been...well, less than impressed with what the art world had to offer.
On Peter Paul Reubens: "Whoa! He sure had a thing for the fatties, eh?"
On Edward Hopper: "Look, they're not even talking to each other. What's that all about?"
On Grandma Moses: "Cracker Barrel called. They want their placemats back."
On Roy Lichtenstein: "So he painted a comic book. Let me whip out my checkbook and give him a bazillion dollars for it!"
But it was that last one -- "I coulda done that" -- that finally drove Sam over the edge.
"Look, what's your problem?" he said. "So what if you could do it? What's that supposed to mean?"
Dean rolled his eyes. "Just look at it, Sam. Paint thrown all over a canvas. A cat swallows some food coloring, throws up on a piece of paper, you get the same effect. Next."
Sam sighed, his frustration rising. "Can't you just appreciate something without criticizing it? Something that doesn't have wheels, or a barrel, or a perky rack? Can't you accept that there are beautiful things outside the World of Dean?"
"Can't you accept I'd rather have twelve root canals in a day than be in this temple to snobs?" Dean said.
Sam shook his head. "This is what I'm talking about. You see something you don't like or understand, and you mock it. You just don't get it."
"No, dude, you don't get it," Dean said, his voice growing louder. "Are you forgetting that we have a job to do? That every second we stand here comparing notes on the post-whatever period, people could be dying? But I guess that can wait, because Sam wants everyone to know how smart he is. Here, I'll help you out. HEY, EVERYONE! MY BROTHER COULD KICK ALL YOUR ASSES ON JEOPARDY!"
"Dean, stop it!" Sam hissed. "Why are you doing this?"
"Get it through your head, Sammy," Dean continued, quieter this time. "No one wants to be the smartest kid in the room. Hell, no one likes the smartest kid in the room."
"Okay, fine. You made your point," Sam said, the will to continue arguing evaporating. "There are only a few more sections within this gallery, okay? So if you'll just be patient--"
Dean rolled his eyes. "I came all the way here with you to look at some fruity paintings, and I've been looking at the fruity paintings, and you're not going to stand there and talk to me like I'm some kinda kid. I did what you wanted. I'm done. I'm going back to the car, and when you finish your little drama, you're welcome to join me so we can get the hell outta here."
Sam struggled to find something to say, but he knew Dean had the upper hand here. He cast his gaze toward the floor. Dean turned and began to walk out of the gallery.
Sam started to say something, but hesitated. Oh, to hell with it. He was going to say it even if it made him sound like a character from a Nicholas Sparks novel.
"Dean?"
The older Winchester stopped and turned around. "What?"
"I didn't just come here for me. I'm not here to prove how smart I am. I wanted you to see this. I was hoping you'd see in these paintings what I see in them."
Dean folded his arms. "And what's that?"
"Well, it's--you see...okay. You and I both know there's a lot of ugly in the world. We see it and deal with it every day."
"Yeah."
"These works of art remind me that there's also great beauty. That someone can come up with these things -- that humans can create and appreciate beautiful things -- it just gives me something to hold on to. Some comfort of knowing that just like we're out there trying to protect people from evil, there are other people just as invested in showing us the limitless capabilities of the human mind."
"Did you read that off a greeting card or something?" Dean queried, unimpressed.
Sam stared at Dean in mild astonishment, then broke away with a dismissive wave. "I'm sorry I brought it up. Give me a few more minutes in here, and then I'll come out to the car, okay?"
Dean nodded and turned back around, striding out of the gallery and into the main corridor. Sam stood alone, suddenly not terribly interested in what Krasner was trying to say in this work or any other work.
He scolded himself, wondering what ever made him think Dean would understand or care what art meant to him. He shouldn't have been surprised by Dean's reaction. He was alone on this matter, like so many of the battles that put him at odds with Dean and John over the years.
He took one last sweeping gaze over the pictures on the marble walls. The colors and brushstrokes seemed to mock him with their frivolity.
Sam's appreciation for art wasn't destroyed -- no, it'd take a hell of a lot more than an argument with Dean to do that -- but for the first time it was clear that the playing field had changed. He wasn't a quasi-Bohemian pre-law student anymore, free to waste a day strolling through the artists' conclaves in Sausalito. Art just wasn't the same because Sam wasn't the same. So much had changed for him. It was hard to entertain the concept that merely looking at paintings would take his burdens off his mind, even for an afternoon.
"Odd man out," Sam muttered before walking out of the gallery. "Always the odd man out."
* * *
Not a word was spoken on the drive out of the District. Sam stared through the window at the southern suburbs as they whizzed by. About ten miles outside Washington, they ran into a solid wall of traffic the stretched as far as either man could see.
Silence reigned. Somehow, it was easier to tolerate the silence when they were moving, but now that it was clear they weren't going anywhere for a while, the tension crept up with each passing moment.
Dean shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Sam?" he said.
Sam didn't turn to face him. "Yeah?"
"Do me a favor. Reach into the backseat and hand me the tape box. I'm gonna need something pretty strong to put up with this traffic."
Sam rolled his eyes and unbuckled his seat belt. "There's something on top of it. Hold on. Hey, what is this?"
"What's it look like?"
Sam settled back into his seat, holding the plain brown paper-wrapped object. "I don't know. It's heavy."
Dean shrugged. “Only one way to find out, I guess.”
Sam tore open the paper and read the exposed cover: A Treasury of American Art. He looked at Dean, confusion shaping his features.
“I don’t…I don’t understand. You bought this?”
“Swiped it from some snooty art teacher. I’ve never seen a man in tweed run that fast.”
“Still, though,” Sam said. “I mean, you didn’t have to.”
"It's nothin'," Dean said. "Just because."
Sam nodded. "Yeah, I know. Thanks, Dean."
Instantly, the older Winchester's tone hardened. "Let's not make a big production out of it."
"Right," said Sam, still somewhat puzzled, thumbing through the pages again. He looked up and cracked a smile. "But I thought everyone hated the smartest kid in the room."
"They do," Dean replied. "But if they give you any shit," -- and here Sam swore he saw the faintest hint of a smile -- "they'll have to answer to me."
Rating: G
Synopsis: Sam, Dean and a tumultuous day at the National Gallery of Art in Washington.
Disclaimer: I don't own the characters. But I do own a swell alarm clock that tells the time in 26 cities.
As long as he could remember, Sam loved art. He'd cut class in junior high school to go to the library, spending a couple of hours poring over richly illustrated books bursting with the colors and textures of art movements back to the Renaissance. His favorites were American artists, from the carefully crafted portraits of John Singleton Copley to the pastels of Mary Cassatt and the violent splashes of Jackson Pollock. All of them thrilled him, showing him there was so much more to the world than rock salt and iron rods.
For a time he even wanted to be an artist, but one bad run-in with a canvas and oil paints convinced him that perhaps his calling was as an observer. After all, art's gotta be appreciated by someone, right? And so Sam observed. He visited museums and galleries throughout northern California, from the Museum of Modern Art in San Francisco to the little art shops that lined the streets of Sonoma. He took a couple of art appreciation classes at Stanford, finding even more to like in what he didn't know about the subject.
His knowledge came in handy only once, when that girl from the painting started killing folks. But that was two years ago, and it wasn't fun because it was case-related. He missed being able to look at a painting or sculpture and just enjoy it for what it was.
That's what brought him here, standing in front of a Lee Krasner painting at the National Gallery of Art in Washington, marveling at the chaotic loops and swirls.
He begged Dean to make this stop. It was on the way to Richmond, he said. Just a couple of hours and we're through, he said. Trust me, you'll love it, he said, even though he knew it probably wasn't true. And when Dean finally buckled, it didn't feel so much like a victory as it did a reprieve, a brief window to those more carefree times back in Palo Alto.
As his eyes danced across the canvas, tracing the drips and spirals, Sam glanced at Dean, looking for the same wonder he himself experienced. He didn't find it.
"I don't get it," Dean said, for maybe the twentieth time in the last hour. "What's it supposed to be?"
"It's not supposed to be anything," Sam replied with more than a little tension in his voice. "Abstract expressionism is about the process itself. It's a representation of the creative process."
Dean cocked his head to one side. "I coulda done that." It was the twentieth time he'd said that, too.
Dean had been...well, less than impressed with what the art world had to offer.
On Peter Paul Reubens: "Whoa! He sure had a thing for the fatties, eh?"
On Edward Hopper: "Look, they're not even talking to each other. What's that all about?"
On Grandma Moses: "Cracker Barrel called. They want their placemats back."
On Roy Lichtenstein: "So he painted a comic book. Let me whip out my checkbook and give him a bazillion dollars for it!"
But it was that last one -- "I coulda done that" -- that finally drove Sam over the edge.
"Look, what's your problem?" he said. "So what if you could do it? What's that supposed to mean?"
Dean rolled his eyes. "Just look at it, Sam. Paint thrown all over a canvas. A cat swallows some food coloring, throws up on a piece of paper, you get the same effect. Next."
Sam sighed, his frustration rising. "Can't you just appreciate something without criticizing it? Something that doesn't have wheels, or a barrel, or a perky rack? Can't you accept that there are beautiful things outside the World of Dean?"
"Can't you accept I'd rather have twelve root canals in a day than be in this temple to snobs?" Dean said.
Sam shook his head. "This is what I'm talking about. You see something you don't like or understand, and you mock it. You just don't get it."
"No, dude, you don't get it," Dean said, his voice growing louder. "Are you forgetting that we have a job to do? That every second we stand here comparing notes on the post-whatever period, people could be dying? But I guess that can wait, because Sam wants everyone to know how smart he is. Here, I'll help you out. HEY, EVERYONE! MY BROTHER COULD KICK ALL YOUR ASSES ON JEOPARDY!"
"Dean, stop it!" Sam hissed. "Why are you doing this?"
"Get it through your head, Sammy," Dean continued, quieter this time. "No one wants to be the smartest kid in the room. Hell, no one likes the smartest kid in the room."
"Okay, fine. You made your point," Sam said, the will to continue arguing evaporating. "There are only a few more sections within this gallery, okay? So if you'll just be patient--"
Dean rolled his eyes. "I came all the way here with you to look at some fruity paintings, and I've been looking at the fruity paintings, and you're not going to stand there and talk to me like I'm some kinda kid. I did what you wanted. I'm done. I'm going back to the car, and when you finish your little drama, you're welcome to join me so we can get the hell outta here."
Sam struggled to find something to say, but he knew Dean had the upper hand here. He cast his gaze toward the floor. Dean turned and began to walk out of the gallery.
Sam started to say something, but hesitated. Oh, to hell with it. He was going to say it even if it made him sound like a character from a Nicholas Sparks novel.
"Dean?"
The older Winchester stopped and turned around. "What?"
"I didn't just come here for me. I'm not here to prove how smart I am. I wanted you to see this. I was hoping you'd see in these paintings what I see in them."
Dean folded his arms. "And what's that?"
"Well, it's--you see...okay. You and I both know there's a lot of ugly in the world. We see it and deal with it every day."
"Yeah."
"These works of art remind me that there's also great beauty. That someone can come up with these things -- that humans can create and appreciate beautiful things -- it just gives me something to hold on to. Some comfort of knowing that just like we're out there trying to protect people from evil, there are other people just as invested in showing us the limitless capabilities of the human mind."
"Did you read that off a greeting card or something?" Dean queried, unimpressed.
Sam stared at Dean in mild astonishment, then broke away with a dismissive wave. "I'm sorry I brought it up. Give me a few more minutes in here, and then I'll come out to the car, okay?"
Dean nodded and turned back around, striding out of the gallery and into the main corridor. Sam stood alone, suddenly not terribly interested in what Krasner was trying to say in this work or any other work.
He scolded himself, wondering what ever made him think Dean would understand or care what art meant to him. He shouldn't have been surprised by Dean's reaction. He was alone on this matter, like so many of the battles that put him at odds with Dean and John over the years.
He took one last sweeping gaze over the pictures on the marble walls. The colors and brushstrokes seemed to mock him with their frivolity.
Sam's appreciation for art wasn't destroyed -- no, it'd take a hell of a lot more than an argument with Dean to do that -- but for the first time it was clear that the playing field had changed. He wasn't a quasi-Bohemian pre-law student anymore, free to waste a day strolling through the artists' conclaves in Sausalito. Art just wasn't the same because Sam wasn't the same. So much had changed for him. It was hard to entertain the concept that merely looking at paintings would take his burdens off his mind, even for an afternoon.
"Odd man out," Sam muttered before walking out of the gallery. "Always the odd man out."
* * *
Not a word was spoken on the drive out of the District. Sam stared through the window at the southern suburbs as they whizzed by. About ten miles outside Washington, they ran into a solid wall of traffic the stretched as far as either man could see.
Silence reigned. Somehow, it was easier to tolerate the silence when they were moving, but now that it was clear they weren't going anywhere for a while, the tension crept up with each passing moment.
Dean shifted uncomfortably in his seat. "Sam?" he said.
Sam didn't turn to face him. "Yeah?"
"Do me a favor. Reach into the backseat and hand me the tape box. I'm gonna need something pretty strong to put up with this traffic."
Sam rolled his eyes and unbuckled his seat belt. "There's something on top of it. Hold on. Hey, what is this?"
"What's it look like?"
Sam settled back into his seat, holding the plain brown paper-wrapped object. "I don't know. It's heavy."
Dean shrugged. “Only one way to find out, I guess.”
Sam tore open the paper and read the exposed cover: A Treasury of American Art. He looked at Dean, confusion shaping his features.
“I don’t…I don’t understand. You bought this?”
“Swiped it from some snooty art teacher. I’ve never seen a man in tweed run that fast.”
“Still, though,” Sam said. “I mean, you didn’t have to.”
"It's nothin'," Dean said. "Just because."
Sam nodded. "Yeah, I know. Thanks, Dean."
Instantly, the older Winchester's tone hardened. "Let's not make a big production out of it."
"Right," said Sam, still somewhat puzzled, thumbing through the pages again. He looked up and cracked a smile. "But I thought everyone hated the smartest kid in the room."
"They do," Dean replied. "But if they give you any shit," -- and here Sam swore he saw the faintest hint of a smile -- "they'll have to answer to me."