The Art Of Going Rogue
Tuesday, May 12, 2009 at 03:44PM 
Last Saturday I very nearly was ejected from an art museum. True story.
In celebration of Mother's Day, my mother, TG, three of our four children, and I paid rather dearly for the privilege of experiencing Turner to Cézanne ... an "important" collection of impressionist and post-impressionist paintings appearing briefly at the Columbia Museum of Art.
(Whether the exhibit was in actuality important is something I will leave to the experts. I am a mere dilettante; most of the art on my walls came from Hobby Lobby.)
It was enough for me that there were a couple of Renoirs (most notably La Parisienne, pictured above), a few Monets, a sprinkling of Millets, one or two Cézannes, and a single van Gogh (Rain - Auvers, 1890).
That morning I awoke anticipating what was sure to be a delirious rush of endorphins induced by concentrated and purposeful exposure to high artistic culture. I got dolled up and wore a big straw hat to lend myself what I hoped was a sophisticatedly bohemian cachet.
Just like when I go to Wal-Mart.
Not being any stripe of a shrinking violet, however, my cover might have been blown early on. Story of my life ... also true, as is any self-respecting life story.
I became captivated by a Daumier depicting a shepherdess.
Having arrived at the museum in the late morning, our little gang ran a gauntlet of smiling volunteers spaced every few dozen feet, walked upstairs, relinquished our tickets, and entered the hushed gallery.
We were provided with no art-viewing tutorial of any variety before gaining access to the actual pictures we had collectively forked over eighty-seven dollars to see. You'll need to remember those little details.
Apparently it pays to look as though you know what you're doing. Or maybe not.
The first thing we noticed was that all of the magnificent mid- to late-nineteenth century oil paintings were framed behind glass. Just like my stuff from Hobby Lobby!
(Tacky. Make that über-tacky. Although I have never been across the puddle, never darkened the doorways of the Tate or the Louvre, I have visited a couple of tonier museums stateside in my day -- including Chicago's Art Institute and the National Gallery -- and glass in the frames was a first for me.)
Part of my considerable excitement in viewing these paintings was the prospect of being able to clearly see the brushstrokes made by temperamental geniuses many decades before I was born. Glass makes that impossible. You could be looking at a poster ... from Hobby Lobby.
But because we had no choice, we suspended disbelief and attempted to look past the glass to the beautiful artworks within. Not so difficult, as it turned out ... and at times downright delightful.
We had passed from the first room of pictures to the second (of six) when it happened.
I became captivated by a Daumier depicting a shepherdess accompanied by -- wait for it! -- sheep, and a sheepdog. They were just sort of moseying down a lane (as they do), but the sheep were rather marvelously rendered, in my opinion.
Two sheep in particular instantly became dear to me, and by this time my mother had come alongside, and I was exclaiming over the detail of one sheep's cute face when I did it: I pointed at the sheep so that my mom would have no doubt which one I meant.
And when I did, my index finger came within, oh, three inches of the GLASS.
Baaaaaad.
Suddenly we were made to feel like criminals.
Faster than you can say drop cloth, he she it was by my side. I mean no disrespect (sort of), but honestly, folks, it makes me nervous when I cannot readily discern -- i.e. at a glance -- whether a person is male or female.
In my view, androgyny is even tackier than oil paintings hidden behind glass. There; I've said it and I'm not sorry.
Said Genderless Museum Muscle began to chide me for failing to maintain a proper distance between my person and the painting.
"But I never touched it," I said. "All I did was point, and I can't hurt it by pointing. I paid to see the pictures and I'm going to look at the pictures!" I may have gotten a tad bit animated, as is my wont when I am being harassed.
I think I let it be known, Garbo-esque, that I preferred to be left alone ... a faint wish that fell on deaf ears.
"But you got closer than twelve inches," it iterated. Then, ominously: "The cameras."
The cameras? The cameras what? The cameras are on? The cameras like sheep? The cameras can't see past my hat? The cameras aren't into androgyny any more than I am?
We may never know. The sexually ambiguous culture bouncer retreated to a doorway and commenced surveilling me the way a great big crow eyeballs doggy kibble served al fresco. Waiting, no doubt, for me to go all renegade recidivist and POINT MY FINGER AT A GLASSED CANVAS AGAIN.
Funny ... when the Columbia Museum of Art strategically placed massive LED billboards all over town touting the importance of this exhibit, clearly they wanted us to take careful notice of that.
When we visited their website in order to discern the who-what-where-when-how-and-how-much of this event, it was obvious they wanted us to absorb that information.
When TG opened his wallet and handed them his credit card to purchase the tickets, they accepted with alacrity and, I have no doubt, have already spent the money.
But when we presented ourselves at the museum and were ENJOYING the actual paintings, suddenly we were made to feel like criminals. Like unwashed and unrepentant boors who, with our very eyebeams and the nearness of our index fingers, were capable of doing irreparable harm to the artwork ... not to mention the delicate psyches of watchdogs both electronic and eunuch-ey.
I even pointed a few more times.
I daresay when Renoir, van Gogh, Daumier, Corot, Millet, Monet, Manet, Bevan, Smith, Cézanne, Pissarro, Whistler, Turner -- and countless other brilliant artists -- conceived, dreamt of, studied for, executed, perfected, agonized over, and ruined their hands and eyesight in order to give birth to these breathtaking works, the very least they hoped for was that the pictures would someday hang on a wall and that someone would LOOK -- REALLY LOOK -- AT THEM.
And maybe even get all excited, and lean in, and point out a precious detail, and share it with their mother, on the day before Mother's Day ... or any other day.
Imagine me getting all bent out of shape if a total stranger had the temerity to openly admire my children ... my masterpieces. Not going to happen.
To quote one of my four great works, namely my astute daughter, Audrey: "If they didn't want us to look at them up close, they should have put them behind a barrier."
True. But I'm glad they didn't. Because if they had, I would have missed the moment -- however fleeting! -- when I connected with the face of a dumb animal painted a century ago by a spectacularly gifted and passionately creative human being.
And although I'm sure the museum employee profiled me as a potentially dangerous Rude Rudy, a would-be art terrorist, someone from whom the paintings needed to be defended, I am glad to report that I continued leaning in, and I even pointed a few more times.
Did not the legendary Diana Vreeland maintain that elegance is refusal? She did. And so, elegant or not, I refused to stop admiring, noticing, experiencing, emoting, considering, searching, gleaning, wondering, gasping, and appreciating.
In the end, despite opposition both active and passive, you'll be gratified to learn that we got our money's worth. And not just somehow, but triumphantly.
Then we partook of a lovely late lunch at my favorite restaurant, where we laughed and talked and whiled away the afternoon.
In many ways it was priceless.
Reader Comments (16)
I for one am apalled at your behavior! You obviously were not raised correctly and have no business wandering around a high class art museum. I think perhaps some etiquette lessons may be in order and possible when you master that, you could think about going back. :)
You bad, rebel girl, you! I'm glad you rallied and had a good time in spite of - um, the person. We went to the Naples Art Museum to see a special Chihuly display (which was marvelous!!!) and while there, of course, we took in the rest of the exhibits. We didn't get threatened, but we did get perturbed looks, because a woman-guide was basically trying to convince everyone that strips of torn garbage glued any which way on a board was art, and we were having none of it! It might of been Jackson Pollock, and while I know he's "big" I can't for the life of me figure out why, on some of his pieces at least. I feel sure we also pointed. I know we smirked and made rude comments.
@ Mari ... I'll go back (and take my bad manners with me) when Victor/Victoria is no longer in charge of surveillance! I guess I was a pretty poor example of an art afficionado ... I'll work on it! ;-)
@ Tracie ... Oh, you bad girl! Smirking at the Pollocks! I do love Dale Chihuly's work, though. I saw a wonderful exhibit of his in Columbus, Ohio, many years ago. I wouldn't dream of touching THAT glass, LOLOLOL
Yeah! Way to stick it to that odd looking girl(?)! You're right too...we did have a great time. : )
@ Audrey ... that was a GIRL? ;-D
Let's be clear: I'm a danged Yankee. And one lacking in trendy culture and sophistication. Fact is, I'm a cultural barbarian, who'd point at a picture in an art museum (if I ever stumbled into one, mistaking it for a gothic McDonalds) and ask loudly to Andy/Andrea (when it charged over to correct my offending point), "what in the Sam Horsefeathers is that supposed to be a picture of?".
But, since art IS in the eyes of the beholder, and you did fall in love with a 100+ year old painted sheep, I reckon you got your money's woolth.
*ducking boos and throwd display programs*
Jenny - it's me - Susan. E-mail me!
@ SF ... you made me spit coffee out my nose! I'll get you for that! Money's woolth ... *mutters* ;-)
@ Susan ... OK!
Boy, this art museum had it all. Artwork behind glass? Check. Ridiculous rules about how close a person can be to said artwork behind glass? Double check. The complete and total absence of signs informing patrons of the aforementioned proximity rules to said artwork behind glass? Triple check.
And if that wasn't wonderful enough, the museum had it's own walking, talking stereogram! If you looked REALLY closely, the true gender of the stereogram would be revealed!
@ Kev ... the art museum also had our PRESENCE, at least for a little while! And I don't want to get any closer to that stereogram unless/until I absolutely have to! BTW, wait till you hear about what I bought in the gift shop!
Hahahaha! I knew we had a lot in common.
When Heathrow Jenn and I visited the National Portrait Gallery in London (to see the one of the real Lord Rochester they have there) we suffered the same indignity.
Having gazed our fill at the Earl - and been highly critical, I might add - we wandered around the other exhibits and found ourselves in front of a painting whose life and colour and attention to detail had us transfixed.
And I went to point out some detail to HJ, and immediately, the 'waxwork' in the doorway sprang to life and appeared to be having some kind of tearful fit.
'NOT INSIDE THE FRAME! NOT INSIDE THE FRAME!' he spluttered, anxiety writ large across his pop-eyed face. 'STEP BACK ... STEP BACK!!!'
To be fair, there is no glass at the NPG. And to be equally fair, fingerprints of thousands would quickly ruin the treasures therein. But yes, we felt like criminals. Sadly for the gallery staff, we then proceeded to giggle like schoolgirls and continue to point at paintings, within a hairsbreadth of the frame.
It was quite fun. Tee hee.
LOL!
@ Jay ... What a great story! I'm not surprised to learn that you are as lawless as I, and as prone to annoying museum employees! *chucklesnort*
I think one of my favorite lines in your story would be one of the shorter ones which might get looked over: "And not just somehow, but triumphantly." That's a very cool way to seize and win the day.
Great story and a fantastic read as always!
Tony
@ Tony ... I'm not surprised you're the one who noticed it! Years ago, when I was a teenager, I visted the campus of Tennessee Temple University in Chattanooga. That saying: "Not somehow, but triumphantly" was painted real big on the side of a building. It resonated with me and I've never forgotten it! Words are powerful! Thanks for reading and for YOUR kind words, my friend.
I visted the campus of Tennessee Temple University in Chattanooga. That saying: "Not somehow, but triumphantly" was painted real big on the side of a building.
I wish my memory was better because I'm certain I've seen that building. My senior year of high school, in a story with all sorts of amusing anecdotes, I spent the week of spring break practicing with Tennessee Temple's baseball team. But alas, I do not remember the building with the saying on it. Boooo memory. Boooo.
@ Kev ... ahh, funny, young, YOUNG man. I am talking about circa approximately 1973, for crying out loud! LONG before you were born ... Although I wouldn't swear to it, I'm pretty sure the writing has been expunged from that wall for at least two decades. But then, I haven't been on that campus since 1979 so I really wouldn't know! Thanks all the same for trying to remember ... ;-) ... and by the way, I want to hear some of those anecdotes. SKOS post, perhaps? Think about it, friend!