To satisfy my seemingly endless thirst for art, I arrived at the Whitney without any expectations. Several weeks ago I was turned away- it was the day before the museum opened its doors for its biennial program, and only members had access that first day. Unabashed, I visited the Museum of the City of New York instead.
But today I was going to consummate my desire.
The Whitney was mobbed. And what an eclectic mob it was! Lots of young people, dressed in artsy clothes, and many foreign-speaking tourists as well. I brought several pages of the WSJ to read on the subway ride, and hadn't quite finished by the time I reached uptown. So before I went into the museum, I stood against a wall just outside the entrance to finish my article, before throwing the paper out. Three restless young German guys stood well within my personal space where I was in the corner, cramming themselves up against the window to get a look inside. Reflexively irritated, I then had to laugh at their self-absorbed state- they couldn't help themselves, I thought: they were young, European, boys.
So I was in a better state of mind when I went inside. Mentally prepared for the crowds, even ready for some people-watching, as well as the art.
I started on the second floor, and worked my way up the staircase to each floor in succession. Three floors of "new art", and the masters of modern art at the top. There was a difference.
I knew the show would be avant-garde. I had been to the Whitney before, seen the three-dimensional displays of "modernist"artworks. But I think I saw it all this day: from traditional framed oil and watercolor paintings of untraditional subjects, huge blocks of "found objects" encased in resin, a wooden house and the movie it featured playing on TVs inside. Also, whole rooms that were entertaining, if bizarre: bubbling fish tanks filled with gatorade, a workspace filled with green peas and music cds on sticks, a storage space with shelves of duplicate artwork. Only the films caught my fancy: several fantasy documentaries, personal interviews with a character the artist created, and a story about maidens who made goat's cheese with their floor-length hair.
As Mike suggested at dinner that night, a lot of junk.
No offence to the artists at all. In fact, I admired their chutzpah- was really jazzed at the nearly palpable creative urges, barely contained, I saw all around me. It was hard to know, though, what to think of many of the pieces. I looked at the artwork, then read about the artist- checked their nationality, age and gender to see where they were coming from psychologically. This art was, above all, psychological. Or what I mean is, it was the physical manifestation of individual thoughts and fleeting emotions. I got the self-expression, but where was the art?
And so when I finally entered the fifth floor, I knew I was greeted by the "winners" of the last century's artworld contest. Here I saw the genius behind the talent- the creative individual's mind reaching out to connect with its world. These pieces worked- they spoke to me in a way the stuff downstairs didn't. Andy Warhol, Georgia O'Keefe, Charles DeLuth, Alexander Calder, Edward Hopper, Andrew Wyeth. Most of the art here were paintings- a timeless form of communication. The bizarre didn't really belong.
I tried to imagine some of the new pieces on exhibit today placed here in this top floor gallery one hundred years from now on permanent display. Not sure any of them will make the cut, the odds seem that low.
But if the artists themselves would be lost to posterity, they did have a striking effect on me. Seeing these new works made me want to join in the babble of creative voices all around me. The thought of writing, and photographing my view of the world excited me. I decided then I wanted to find my voice, and get to work.
No comments:
Post a Comment