The Art

I walk in and am greeted by roaring Asian lions, colored in green and golden hues. As I travel up, vases straddle the stair case, waiting to catch the ashes of the dying. At the top I shake proverbial hands with the impressions of Chinese philosopher from ages pasting, waiting politely as Confucius told them to. What impresses me most though are the gods reigning on high above, holding their beloved father Latin, with a sign that translates: architecture, picture, and sculpture. Few other combinations hold as a great majesty as this dome, guarded by armed Athena and the men (or women) in blue. There lays the secret vase guarded by two sphinxes; there sit the furies- naked and deadly. Muses frolic and Olympians pose. Along walls sit lords and ladies, scholars and busts. Above Hercules conquers a hydra, and further right or left I am greeted by more Asiatic art. Gliding to the room directly across from the top of the stairs called “European Art”, I find myself intrigued by the dark portrait of Jesus in suffering, or a stroke. Why is it so dark? Is this to illuminate the pain and suffering and despair felt by his apostles (allegedly) or to imply some dark satanic meaning related to Judas? Who knows, but Judas always gets the bad rap, poor guy. Dutch and dames litter these paintings, shrouded in a misty sheen of darkness or nudity. My favorite though is the ridiculous painting of the midget David holding Goliath's massive head. Over a shoulder he arrogantly leans a foil, hinting at a revision to setting, and I am amused by the image: a braggart, a show off, a big shot who got lucky on a big claim. Jesus. And more Jesus. The religious fanaticism of the people of the past both confounds and mystifies me, not because I care about Jesus, but in light of so many works of art based on him, I feel like I get to know the guy in just 100 feet of hall.

My darling Beatrix guides me to an intersection guarded by angels, but my favorite part of this entrance is not the angels, but the antediluvian pattern books opposing them. So elegant a hand drawn design I have never seen before, and no matter how many times I come, I remain eternally impressed. On the hall to left hang more works of European art, including the Charlemagne sized oil on canvas of Automedon and the Horses of Achilles, so grand it can only be fully seen from a score of feet back. Another painting I adore here is the Execution of Emperor Maximilian by the rebels. The way their faces are blurred, their bodies are fogged in thick barrel smoke expresses how they have been erased by death. It also creates a sense of ambiguity that lends the painting such grandeur that would not exist for any other reason. Also Moses makes waves part in another corner- show off. In the room to the right, colors suddenly leap off oil, and a menagerie of porcelain mounted birds eyes the visitors. There is a painting of paintings that I admire for simply the metaphysical thoughts it speaks, and the harbor of Venice was never such a wonderful drab blue.

If you've been following along, you might have realized I ignored the shinning silverware that sits between this two halls in front of the stairway rotunda. Being the son of a jeweler, I am oddly repelled by such reflective luminosity, like Medusa seeing her own image, I am turned from it, not fully understanding why. Not being trained in art, I am forced to rely on my thoughts and opinion and knowledge as my guide, but this helps me to reclaim the art for myself. This is because we are truly walled off from all these gorgeous things. Not allowed to touch, to taste, to smell or feel. We must only see, and even then, we are supposed to see what the experts see, and confirm our interpretations thusly. But that’s not how I roll. To me art is a personal experience, at least as much as it is a public one from the artists perspective, and personalizing the art is the best way I find to connect with it, rather than just gleam on by one after another. It is what makes the experience enjoyable, and rememberable, and why I love coming to art museums again and again. This becomes even more the case with modernist art and surrealism and cubism. Wish I could find it frankly. Oh well, onward and upward!

In another room I find amazing paintings by Cezzan and Manet and Van Gogh. These are some of my favorite well known painters. Beautiful blurry scenes of water and lillpads, Van Goghs beared mailman. This is the beauty that I dare attempt to recreate in humility to these fathers of my art when I write creatively. A tour guide walks in and says, “This is a very important room, the impressionist.” But I get the impression that she can only see it as she has been told it, not as she wants to. Either way I do agree they are a huge favorite of mine, even Renoir's painting of the dancing couple on a fine summer day.

I wander in and out of rooms, avoiding the religious iconography. It turns my stomach, the silliness of such things made for invisible people on high who can read your mind. A man passes by, treating his cell phone as a walkie talkie, moving it to his mouth to speak and ear to listen. I feel almost embarrassed for him, believing he does not get how the phone works, and politely tell him it should work if he just holds it to his ear. He says it doesn't, and I reply odd, only to be apologized to for being bothered by it. I tell him I'm not, but I guess that really isn't the truth. I should probably just mind my own business. I meander on through the Japanese gallery. The art here has a certain elegance and refined restraint that I admire; the scrolls seem to be colored in soft rainbow powders, rather then ink and watercolor. I quest downward, passing the magnificent Showa exhibit for now, looking for the samurai sword collection that was here last time: gone. They moved it out, and further more they restrict me from taking pictures down here, but I convince the guard to let me snap a picture of the sign at the entrance at least. Pots and pictures dot wall mounted boxes, and the rich deep colors of the only katanna they have remind me of the grand collection they had last time. I come back around and am stunned by the Showa Exhibit: such glorious colors splash on paper panes in a way that dazzles the imagination with their brilliance. I see the old avant guarde of 1930's Japan, works that don't make any sense to me, but none the less are interesting to contemplate. Searching for richer booties, I voyage downward to look for the more contemporary works.

I find a gallery of Japanese furniture, and I am there. At the desk, writing calligraphy, reading my Buddhist texts or studying the name of my dear Shinto gods. I am held close by the bed, warm and secure and shaded by sheets of linen. Again, no pictures. I took a few anyways. I mosey on through it, to find the Greene and Greene exhibit which oddly is the other end of the Japanese craze: the American's who couldn't get enough the Japanese style furniture and homes and art, so the Greene guys replicated it for them. Its good, but has nothing on the original. A guard wearing a thick pepper mustache sits near the entrance to the exhibit, and speaks with some heavy Greek or Italian accent. I decide to call him Zorba, though he does not know this. I find the Colonial art area on my way to more contemporary things, and know instantly that my favorite painting here is of twilight in the commons. I can remember the spot where they stand, feel the snowy sidewalk. This is a spot that I have walked by a thousand times, and feel touched to know it so well, oddly. The runner up though is nothing to frown at: the beautiful pastel painting of a woman in a row boat with her baby, under the branch of a tree on the water. It's so bright and blue and white and pink, so lovely you can't help to think: why them, since the there is obvious. I also enjoy the painting of Islamic woman going and come from church, their faces all veiled in white; hidden in plain sight. The daughters of Sargent are also in this room, and to be honest they kind of scare me. They all look so similar, and all have this empty stare, looking straight back at you. Maybe he was trying to capture the curious nature of young children, but something simply feels a little dark about it, if only the tone. The surrealist painting of the old Brooklyn bridges feels like fractals, and the epic pink cloud I also find nearby has the most wonderful name of “Antibes: The Pink Cloud”, so epic.

I walk back, in search of a room I passed”Musical Collection”. Having taught myself a lot of basic music theory, and having been a mechanical engineering major, I recognize how many of the instruments produce sound, even if I have never played them. The air vibrates with sound, and pitch is determined by the length of wave crest to wave crest, whether through air, or on string. But the ability to stop and recognize the instrumentation that creates art as art itself is a wonderful concept that I applaud. I myself want an upright piano in my home some day, but the piano collection they have hear is astounding: painting that I dare say might belong in the 19th centaury European art hall are painted right into the cover of a grand piano. Wind instruments are covered in carvings, or bent into unique shapes that defy how they work. Have you ever played a note off a wet crystal class? Well built by Ben Franklin himself is paino-eqsue version of that concept, with bowls stacked over bowls ever getting smaller with a spindle through the center, allowing speedy access to the bowl edges for playing. They have all the old lutes I have ever seen, mouth organs, banjos, harpsichord. Even a guitar with tabs that let you hammer the strings like a piano. Genius! Sadly this room is very small, and before I realize it I'm back out in the right hall again, waiting to see where I end up. I leave and move toward other parts of the museum.

In the next room is what the MFA deems, “Contemporary Art”, though my own taste wishes to rename it, “empty art”. There is some strange painting of the woods meeting at the meadows along the past, with ominous skies moving in, that says on the top, “Talk about the Future”, and at the bottom, “Forget about the Past”. Honestly, I don't even begin to understand its point or meaning. Another painting by the same artist hangs next to it, portraying a dark and seemly dangerous wooded area, with stylized writing over it the image that I can't even understand. This reminds me of why I used to hate contemporary art, it felts obscure, meaningless, and inartistic. I really want something mesmerizing to be there, but, there just isn't anything there to me. Disappointed, I find a room filled with TV's, with an array of people singing along to the same song in each TV. I'm not sure what the point is, but I sense a meaningful collectiveness in this portrayal of song, of sound. They move in shake and look in different directions, but they sing with one voice, one purpose. There are strange pictures of singers that seem from the 60's, along Warhol-eqsue colorings of the same picture, and others. The wall has a column of text against yellow titled, “Seeing Songs”. I can assume that’s probably the point of this contemporary exhibit, and the singing multitude near by. There are abstract paintings that hang in solitude here, and in their disarray I find fascination. They remind me of the abstract paintings that adorned the inside of my house before we sold it (the house that is). Except these arts have a far better sense of color than my father did. One seems to have this path down the middle with blotted black guiding it, and colors hanging in the air on either side of the path, along with other trails of colors. Abstract art may be confusing sometimes, but at least you can sense the meaning in its lines, in the reason why brush strokes were laid down here and not there. One large rectangular painting is like a thousand needles whizzing and whirling through the darkness, glancing off each other carelessly. A reverberating corridor beckons me in, and I find a projector displaying people playing air guitar to old classic rock songs. I like the songs, and the way people feel the music is sort of interesting, but once again I remain largely unimpressed by people playing air guitar. Outside are even stranger painting and drawing’s one of what I believe in a hummingbird like splotch of paint dropping and hitting water and getting ready to shoot back out again. It feels poignant in its linear orientation. My favorite piece in here is the score sheets, covered in musicians scribble and musical notes. It reminds me of the notes of a poet perfecting the poem, of writer editing the story. The mad scramble for the feel of thing that signifies it (whatever “it” is). What seems to be fading black and white textile has shadows trapped within, hiding in the meshing gray. A book sits under glass, one side a strange abstract sketch, another poem in German.

The badge wielders march in, telling me I can't take photos (damn Nazi's), and that they close in three minutes. There never feels like enough time when I visit here to do my writing. I rush out and down a hall that I have yet to notice, hoping eventually there is an exit. I stumble through the Mexican art exhibit, and am impressed. The walls are littered with photographs, of random places and events. Pleasant, but not enticing. What does catch my eye are the fleeting lithographs I find. I love lithograph, and hope to collect a few some day, particularly French ones. A lithograph of an eye stares at me, but I stare at the bright orangey red colors that burst from the block letters. The next says “Victory!” in Spanish, and has some mixed images of hand drawn patriotism such as flags and people fighting. A yellow lithograph with two hands holding a piece of paper says, “Live the Drama of Mexico”. I don't know a word of Spanish, but the majority of romance language words have the same meaning and spelling, so from my French and Latin I pick up enough. There are other examples of Mexican art, laid in stone that I find, but before I know it I'm in another hall. Goodbye Mexico! Statues and totems and masks overwhelm me, I am in what appears to be considered the collective art of Oceania, a series of islands that is. These atavistic carving are so human to me, so personal and perceptional, despite whatever foreign cultures spawned them from wood. Slender totems of gods and spirits stand together, squatting upon the squatters, so to speak. I adore the weapons. Weapons are a fascinating form of art I think because with only so many practical ways to hurt people, its interesting to see how different cultures reinvent the same weaponry. And some invent even new weapons as well. Here there is mostly curving axes, scythes, and kama like hooks. On the opposite side of the display are daggers and short swords and I thing chains and collars. All very impressive feats of metallurgy. On the walls hang tribal masks. One has a long brown or red beard, face painted white over the slender nose and flat cheeks. Other masks are far more complex and ornate, clearly meant to be warm over the whole head, and not just the face. They seem very heavy and I am glad that I don't have to wear them. Still, the complexity of colors and carving makes me jealous I can't hold them at least. Each mask is different, with some that look like demons painted white and red, and others far more brown and beige. There is even what I dare call the original skateboard deck, with the sickest painting of these thin spiky goblins. On mask has the snout of an elephant I think, though shorter. A stone face wears a bowlers hat. The scariest is of course the tall triangular mask, mouth lined with sharp teeth. There are oars and textiles and iconography held behind glass. A book under glass shows what looks like an ancient myan temple. There are little statues and big statues and tools from different trades. But the guards keep at my back, pushing me out and out.

I find the hall that runs along the bookstore. Here is the glass sculptures cased in mirrors to make them seem like they go on forever. The wall opposing has a zebra paint job covering it, with broken chairs mounted along in nefarious colors. I walk by the closed mini bar, and stare into the bookstore. Only a week or two ago I was here looking for a present for my girlfriend. Many of the items inside were very pretty and unique, but often extremely overpriced. It almost reminded me of the zoo gift shop, about as kitsch anyways. I bought a record that had been molded through heat into a bowl, and a glass turtle. Really only the tiny turtle was in my range, but don't tell her that. At least the service was very polite and helpful. On my way out I find a three minute long movie of fruit, in a bowl. Can't we just, move away from fruit in the bowl already? How many people have done it now? How many times does the same damn theme need to be reinterpreted? I watch for just a minute, and move on. A glassy hunk of metal sits in the center, glistening in the light. It certainly intrigues me, but I find myself bored with little to make of it. Finally I reach the front exit again. Having taken so long on my retreat from certain victory, I find that the sun is gone down, and the benches are empty. What held a vivacious sense of life with people here now feels barren and desolate. I suppose people had places to go, things to do. Yet for me, going to the MFA is the thing to do. To waste time in, to read or write in, to simply ponder, eat, shop, stare. This stone building is the epicenter of artistic representation in this little west side of the city, and short of the Gardener, nothing comes close.