Going to an Art Museum
The art museum, gallery, exhibition, studio, etc. holds in the popular imagination the concept of high culture. The architecture of the museum itself, often adorned with Classical columns outside and statues of gods and goddesses inside, reinforce this, as Ancient Greek culture is seen by most as “the pinnacle of Western Civilization”. This may make a few intimidated to pass judgment on what is found inside.
There are bound to be a handful of disappointed persons who visit art museums and leave as clueless as when they entered. It appears as a foreign language, or some inside joke that they are not privy to, on why all these paintings receive the perpetual praise that they do.
“Perhaps I am not smart enough,” says one as they view the Cubist experimentation of Picasso, “I have not the genius to comprehend what is before me”. “Too much time has passed, the world is not like this anymore,” says another at the paintings of peasants in the countryside, “Whatever connection could have been felt has been severed by time and space.” And yet observe how these visitors treat these paintings: they barely give them the time of day. The moment the painting settles into their eye, when they recognize what is happening in the painting, they move on to the next one, likely giving no more thought than when they walk past items on display in shop windows. If they do give a painting any excess of their attention, it is on the basis of notoriety of the artist. They spend a few more seconds staring at a Van Gogh and a DaVinci compared to others.
So we can safely say one barrier to enjoying an art museum, or paintings in general, is not giving these works enough time in front of your eyes. Like a fresh song, you must let it seep into your imagination. I mean, let the novelty of the picture wear off as you examine the details, and discover parallels to one’s own experience; those that imitate life, and enable your imagination to spin from these materials visions and sounds of the present, past, and future of the scene held within the frame. I can vividly recall this happening to me with a Portrait of a Young Woman by Sandro Boticelli. It serves as a cover piece for an art book I own, and up to this point for me it was merely a drawing of a woman. Not a particularly realistic one in my view, as everything seemed overtly stylized, from the hair color to the lips, separating it from reality like a cartoon. But then I noticed, underneath her eye, was the slightest shade to indicate bags under her eyes. At that moment the face became recognizable, almost familiar, and I began to dote on the picture as if it was a beautiful woman in a photograph. What attention she gives to her hair piece, and how smooth the line! And what of that calm, modest expressions? What did she do before standing for the work, and what was she thinking of doing after? As the visions involuntarily play in your mind your heart participates too, and unexpected hints of emotion arise. You may be tempted to analyze the painting for the cause of these feelings. I would suggest not, as there are no concise answers. This is the inexplicable part of art, and of such worthwhile human experiences. We can never put a direct label on it, and confine it with definitions. The closest we can get to comprehension is through a side glance by metaphors and symbols.
Besides the layman, another type of person who likes to frequent art museums is the pedantic scholar. I confess I was this visitor in the beginning, and in parts still am. Amateur or professional, if they are by your side they take it as their prerogative to release on you a steady stream of facts that, though relevant, seem never to move you one inch closer to understanding the painting. In understanding it I mean feeling it, participating in the same felt experiences that the artist had felt. With this constant commentary it is difficult to enjoy anything at all. To the newcomer who has a desire to finally unlock the supposed mysteries of this art, the facts serve to stifle and confuse, until finally the flame of desire is snuffed by dry rendition. The amateur scholar likely feels proud rehearsing so much info, and can walk around with their head held high as they turn their nose to audio listening guides or the in person tour. They make quick judgments of the paintings on values which cannot be compared. Generally speaking, any amateur enthusiast of any art or field always seems to hold a prejudice which always aligns with their personal taste. Rare is it to find someone who likes an art form as a whole, and has no inclination to compare what came before with what is now, praising the one to the detriment in the esteem of the other. In painting, they have a special fondness for all painters before the post-Impressionists, when painters were still at least attempting to replicate the observed realities of Nature. Or they have a strong predilection to all contemporary art, for it is of the Now, acknowledges in some fashion the lived experience of relatable people, and makes small comments in agreement of their opinion on the political issues of the day. It practically scolds, and seems to laugh in mockery at all the painters that came from older eras. I am guilty of committing this mistake constantly, favoring antiquities over modern inventions from a prejudice in favor of the time-tested aspect of Age.
Galleries and museums, especially those that have floors dedicated to multiple time periods, deserve repeated viewings. One cannot see all that is worth seeing, one cannot feel all that is worth feeling, in one go. Bring nothing with you on your person but what is necessary, such as your wallet, phone, and a mask if required. Many large galleries have cafes or restaurants which mean you do not need to leave to find a meal elsewhere, or bring a bag for water or snacks. All the conveniences required to enjoy the exhibitions have been offered to you.
I recommend before you arrive to take your time and plan it out. If you do not know anything about art, pick and choose what grabs your attention. That is all that is needed, at least for initial viewing. I recently read a bit of Ruskin again and felt in the mood to view 18th and 19th British landscape paintings, especially Turner, and any by the Pre-Raphaelite Brotherhood.
On the visit to the National Gallery of Art, which resulted in one of my most delightful museum experiences (the pleasure which initially fostered this essay), I entered a room of French paintings. The chief one that immediately begs for your attention, large enough to fill half a wall in the room, was The Favorite of the Emir by John Joseph Benjamin Constant. The sole focus of one’s attention lies in the large, dark, alluring pools in the eyes of the raven-haired woman, who has been kind enough to offer a perpetual glance in our direction. This painting must be appreciated in person, as due to its size it becomes larger than life.
Resting at the center of the olive-tinted features, curtained by wavy threads of night, is a closed grin. How warm and red those lips appear! And notice too the headpiece, how it sparkles as it hits and plays with the rays. Her head rests leisurely on her hand, the right corner of her mouth tugged ever so slightly upwards by the pressure of her palm on her cheek. She is relaxed, perhaps having just completed a stretch, which ended with a yawn, and upon hearing our entrance has turned over to see who the surprise midday visitor could be. I thank the curator of this room for the ingenuity of setting a comfortable couch in front of this painting. Now I could, as relaxed as the women in the painting, enjoy the supposed sensuality. I felt that same desire for adventure rise, for a foreign romance in such unknown lands, in crowded alleyways between beige stones, or covered by the shade of looming palm trees, when the heat of day retreats quietly as the white crescent emerges from twilight. Such longings which fuel undisciplined imaginations for idle, unseen pleasures wrapped in oriental mystery, were partly relieved by this painting. Surely this was something of the same state of mind as Enobarbus’ when he begins his description of Queen Cleopatra’s entrance:
The barge she sat in like a burnished throne,
Burned on the water: the poop was beaten gold…
Move your attention to the other woman, the person the title refers to. Reclined on a pillow, right arm and leg dangling on the side as the left supports her head, which is crowned in a deep red-orange hue, in the realm of vermilion and cinnabar. Her breasts are almost entirely exposed, save for the golden trim of the diaphanous upper garment that blocks forever from our view the eyes on her chest.
There is a man standing above her playing an instrument I know not the name of. I think, for the imagination, it is better that I do not. Same for what noise it makes. I have in my head already a music for this atmosphere. It is not the sweet, soft serenade of the lute, which makes one have fluffy thoughts of flowers and bees, birds and butterflies. It is something more enrapturing. The twangs that accompany dimly lit rooms stuffed with incense, with stone and tiled floors covered in oriental rugs, with bronze men and women treading through the pillows. This is music you could dance to. I already hear the gold jewelry rattle in response as the women shake their hips.
Following the neck of the instrument brings you to a calm seascape, likely in the Mediterranean or North Africa. Birds are flying between two columns enwrapt with an auburn leafed plant, giving thoughts of a splendid garden below. There is a white stone town with smooth untainted walls and rooms in the background, that rests in front of cream pink mountains. How white, how blinding those buildings must be under the full shining sun on a cloudless day! The one or two clouds shown, so large that they cannot be seen in their entirety, give the impression of the vastness of the space. There is another man standing, presumably on guard, by one of the columns, and we remember we are at a noble place of luxury. I return to the woman with the large brown eyes, and wonder what voice, deep or soft? And of what language she speaks. I pray it is not the one I am writing this essay in. Let it be foreign too, unfamiliar to my ear, so it may spill, incomprehensible, and spur on waves of emotion as the notes that emit from the man’s instrument.
As you can see I am well soaked in the dreamy romanticism, and hope to stay a bit longer so I may see the warm yellow-orange sun melt, and dissolve into a stream of gold puddles that flicker sparkles on the careless waves of green and purple waters. But a young woman walks by, points at the painting and laughs, and goes into the next room, her boyfriend following close behind.
It now comes to my attention how counterintuitive a museum is to the appreciation of paintings. When we want to see a movie we will go with friends, and it is common decorum to not have conversations or make any loud noises, for fear of disrupting the experience for the audience. I know in Japan no noise is made at all, even at the funny parts, and besides the occasional cough, one feels they are at the movie by themselves. When we go to re-watch one of our favorite movies we watch it by ourselves in the privacy of our own home. There the viewing experience is not likely to be disrupted by anyone else, though the “magic” of the movie theater is lost. The size of the screen, the loudness of the sounds, and just traveling to a different place, surrounded by strangers with the lights dimmed, hold over our mind a kind of barrier that blocks thoughts of the current time and day, as when we wake up from a nap during twilight and have no conception of what day it is, as we do not know whether the sun is setting or rising.
With such grandiose architecture, such as the ultra wide stone stairways, high ceilings, and impassioned statues, the art museum is a place that elicits awe and admiration. The rotunda at the National Gallery is absolutely grand. Those tall sea-water green marble columns make you feel small and, rightly, help dissolve the sense of Self, which until then has served as an obstacle to the appreciation of the past. Now former glories stand at their proper height, and with a luster that glows brighter for their perseverance in the persistent fight against Time; the highest achievements of the human race weigh upon your mind, and you feel a responsibility to produce something worth the description of greatness.
Yet, any and all enjoyment for such works is tampered by the surrounding distractions, for the constant flow of people and sounds. How could you listen to a song when you can hear the TV in the other room? To make it worse, people will often walk right in front of the paintings and steer away your attention. This behavior is excusable when the painting is large, the room crowded, and located next to the most practical walking path. It is not excusable if I am standing at the end of a corner room in a gallery. At that point one wonders if the annoyance was intentional.
I still wonder why that young woman sardonically laughed at The Favorite of the Emir? If I were to guess, she laughed at it because she did not approve of the position or the status the women were placed in. In such surroundings they appear to be “objectified” by the Emir, and I suppose the artist and the viewer commit the same fault when they view the women in this way. Add to this, along with the women there are two dark-skinned men also in positions of servitude. I can practically hear the words on her lips which all end in “-ism”, and likely in the next room she walked into she passed over the paintings with the same quick contemporary judgment.
All I will say is this: when it comes to visiting art museums, please leave your politics at the door. I say this after watching a video of climate change activists gluing their hands to a Botticelli. It is so obvious what you crave when you commit acts like this. What does Botticelli have to do with climate change? The whole scene is wrought with attention-seeking egotism. We all know what you are trying to say. Whether I support it or not, it is likely one-sided, biased, and extreme, particularly to take such an egregious action.
If you want to dilute the pleasure of anything in life, you mix politics into it. How depressing a political activist’s life must be! Or any ideologue and religious sectarian for that matter, as these dogmatists see everything as black or white, left or right everything that is not what their books says, everything that is not in lined with their manifesto, sets them on edge, and they will shout and bark and make a complete fool of themselves for the hopes of furthering the cause.
I know a few museums have a “members-only” time slot in their regular hours of operations. Two hours before official opening time members of the museum can enjoy the galleries without the noise and the people. Finally I could be alone on the couch with The Favorite of Emir! I look around. There really is no one here! And seeing I am by myself, staring once more at pictures of beautiful women, who can never return my smile, or laugh at my jokes, or play with my hair, I start to feel lonely. Perhaps museums are better with the public.
