The Art of a Museum
There are many moments when a child is deprived of the possibility that his wishful thinking is life's reality. I witnessed one such moment at a museum in New York City.
If you go into any museum without well-known art, all the people act suspiciously similar. They stand in front of a piece of artwork and begin to notice what fills the frame; such a thing is natural to do before contemplating what the meaning of the work is. But then, as if out of nowhere, another onlooker comes from the previous piece of artwork; he too stands close to the first piece and close to the original examiner. So the latter, not wanting to be rude or seem unintelligent, gives a curt nod as if he understands the meaning and moves on.
So I was busy acting as the men above. I was looking at an abstract contraption with lights and metal and cashews and mirrors. And a small kid, surely no more than eight years old, came up next to me and asked his dad, "What is it?"
And his dad, clearly at a loss like anyone else standing there, said, "It is a work of art."
I myself was disappointed and feeling the pressure to move on. So as I walked out of the doorway I asked the security guard, "You've been standing here a long time. What do you think it means?"
And he just laughed.
I would later think that the only way to understand any of the art in there would be to have the same experiences as the artist and to see them in his work. I followed the thought for a while- surely none of us were doing that by standing in this poorly lit museum.
So I promised myself that if I ever was to become a visual artist my only works would be of people at museums looking at things they couldn't ever hope to understand.