“Night at the Museum” Musings

I happen to absolutely love art. Traditional art, that is. I love detailed works that show countless hours of effort, skill, and taste – classic paintings and sculptures. I like museums, but the one place I always avoid there is the Modern Art galleries. It is painfully frustrating for me to go from seeing gorgeous landscapes or lifelike portraits to standing before a large white canvas with a blue dot on it that the artist didn’t even deem important enough to center. It drives me crazy to think about what possessed someone to create such a work of “bla”, and what bothers me even more is thinking who in their right mind decided it was memorable or special enough to showcase so prominently in a museum.  When I am dragged/forced/guilted/tricked into visiting contemporary art exhibits, I usually find comfort (and joy) in sizing up each work and imagining the insanity of the artist and Museum curator who were responsible for bringing this dreadfully boring work of so-called art to the public attention.

Now, I am not going to tell you that after this “Night at the Museum” my views have completely been turned over, and I now love modern and traditional art with equal vigor. I’m sorry, but that bicycle hanging on the wall by the entrance the the gift shop still doesn’t look better than a Starry Night.  However, because of the task we were given, I had to give each painting, sculpture, or miniature monkey, a real chance. For that night, in my mind, all art was fair game.  And because of that night I now see art differently.  I look for meaning even when I don’t see it right away and search for ways to resolve my questions rather than dismissing the art altogether. (I have also stopped assuming all modern art dealers and curators are insane.)

What surprised me that night was that my favorite work of art from the whole three hours I spent there was pretty contradictory to my favored artistic style. It was a glass box that had inside it a straw fedora, an old-fashioned bicycle horn, some glass bottles, and a few other vintage accessories.  I don’t even remember the title or the artist but I loved it because when I saw it, I also saw a scene in my head. The setting:  The summer sun is bright. The sky is cloudless and breezy. A green meadow with tall grass that is dancing softly in the wind. A dirt road through it. The subject: A woman in a white sundress and straw hat rides her bicycle leisurely enough that she can simultaneously sip lemonade from a glass bottle. The bicycle has a horn but it sits unused because she is the only one on the road.  Peaceful. Quiet. Serene. I loved that the art spurred my imagination to spin a story and it led me further to my conclusion that art is not necessarily defined by effort, materials, or skill. Maybe it is truly defined not just by the thought process that preceded its creation, but also by the thought process that it inspires in the mind of the viewer.