My friend Leah, who I would generally describe as a worldly and educated woman, was recently in a modern art museum in Paris. As she wandered through halls of sculpture, paintings and collages so obscure that a three-year-old might have created them, she tried to keep an open mind. She gamely persisted to understand the deeper, existential purpose of eyeball mobiles and patterned wallpaper, and she might have succeeded had she not turned a corner and come face-to-face with the patent cliché of the modern art world: three blank canvases.
I am not making this up. She summed up the experience to me later: “All I could imagine was that ‘artist’ laughing somewhere and saying ‘suckers!’”
Before you send me nasty letters, let me explain: I do not mention this story as a means to discredit the modern (or even the postmodern) art movement. My general understanding of the visual arts—apart from Leah’s experience—comes from two art history courses taken in college ten years ago. I took both sections of the course simultaneously (a feat that nearly any student will tell you is tantamount to academic suicide), and basically left with a vague—if not entirely correct—notion that Baroque equals naked people.
As you can imagine, when I wandered through The Arts Center downtown recently, it was with a healthy amount of skepticism, both for contemporary art and my ability to appreciate it. But why, after so many years of driving and walking past this building, did I finally decide to go in? Two words: shiny objects.
Without the slightest intention of “deconstructing art,” I entered the building as any good consumer would: via the gift shop. There are so many glittery, dangley objects d’arte in that place that I was immobilized—I fell into a “gift shop stupor,” if you will. I was so willing to accept the sheer originality of every piece that I actually noticed a large column of bubble wrap standing on its end and thought, “That’s interesting.” (Turns out it really was just bubble wrap, set out for the purpose that bubble wrap was intended, but you can never be too sure.)
In my semi-hypnotized state, I was then directed to the main event—Waves of Meaning: Robert Stackhouse & Carol Mickett. If I had come through the front entrance, as any normal, art-seeking person probably would, I might have experienced this exhibit in a whole different way. Here’s what I do know: I should have had a Leah moment. I was anticipating a Leah moment. I walked through the heavy, vinyl flaps and right into the middle of what could definitely have been a Leah moment. I’m not kidding you when I tell you what was on the other side of those flaps: thin, cedar planks.
Cedar planks filled the blue-lit space, dark and imposing, forming a repetitive, A-frame structure over and around which more cedar planks were nailed. The installation piece was a loop, with the structures built in quadrants; the rough, wooden pieces were placed precisely in some, haphazardly in another. And, I know what you’re thinking, but the whole thing was (in a word I honestly try not to use), breathtaking.
The artists note that Waves of Meaning is ostensibly a journey through the “various ways of representing the Gulf of Mexico which, in turn, act as metaphors for their collaboration, the process of making art, and the living of a life.”
I admit that I liked the sound of that, but I can’t really tell you what it all has to do with the Gulf of Mexico. I can tell you that any artist who can make me stare at cedar planks for twenty minutes must certainly be achieving a higher purpose.
I can also tell you that the rest of the exhibit was equally enthralling, though in the more two-dimensional manner I am accustomed to. One wall consisted of a swirling and stark recreation of the Gulf of Mexico. Another wall (and I’m risking police inquiry when I say I actually contemplated how to sneak the thing home with me) was a long, wavy succession of blue and black zebra stripes. The effect of this gorgeous watercolor is indescribable.
Still another part of the exhibit professed to hold the “key” to understanding the installation piece, but I’m sure I didn’t make all of the connections. What I do think I finally understand, however, is the idea that this exhibit, like most art—perhaps even those three blank canvases in Paris—has a myriad of meanings. As the title of this exhibit suggests, the experience is not finite, but ephemeral, layered, and complex. Whatever you draw from these pieces is, like “the process of making art, and the living of a life,” perfectly correct.
This exhibit was in its last week at the Arts Center, and I, just wandering in off of the street, was lucky enough to have the experience. I’m sorry that I didn’t know about it sooner; Waves of Meaning is already gone.
Of course, I have since learned that the Arts Center is always buzzing with something new and, usually, fantastic. And there’s more there than the Stackhouse/Mickett exhibit. An interesting display from local high school students—a strange mix of passion, silliness and profundity that only high school students can muster—fills a back hall gallery. Some of it is quite good.
The Center also offers all kinds of classes and artist opportunities, and other gallery areas feature artwork for sale. I was reminded, however, that my limited capacity for appreciating art is not the only reason I have mass-produced prints on my walls: original art is not cheap. Not even in the gift shop.
Although, I might be able to talk them into a good deal on that bubble wrap.
Originally published in The Gabber Newspaper, 2/28/08
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