I am, without doubt, an uncultured slob. Perhaps that’s why I don’t understand “the Arts.” Now, I have no formal education in any of the arts. But I have tried to appreciate it/them.
Well, wait. When I was in college, long before the turn of the century, I took a class called Art Appreciation. So I guess that counts as a measure of formal education. I probably took the course because I thought that there’d be very little homework. But one of our assignments was to go to a museum and appreciate some art. I was in the Midwest at the time and so I went to the St. Louis Art Museum with every intention of appreciating the hell out of some art.
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All these years later, I remember two things from that trip. There was a sculpture out front that was a bunch of cubes stacked on top of one another. That was art. Big cubes of something—Cement? I don’t know—stacked on top of each other in varying positions. I’ll state, categorically, I did not appreciate it.
Inside the museum, there were lots of pictures. Or, I should say, paintings. They were paintings. Not pictures. Paintings. See? I understand a little bit. But most of them, I didn’t get. Hell, I can only remember one painting that I saw that day; and I was quite taken by it. The painting was called, The Dreamer, by a guy named Renoir.
In the class, my prof had showed us many slides of famous art. He always reminded us that a photograph of a painting in a book or magazine could not be appreciated because something was always lost in the process of photographing it. And with this painting, I immediately understood what he meant. In class I had seen a projected slide of the painting but, as I stood before it, I was swept away by the vivid colors of the oils. The swirls of pigment the artist used in the background vibrantly conveyed to me that the subject was dreaming. To this day, it is my favorite of all the paintings of which I’ve had first-hand experience.
For me, if I’m going to appreciate a painting, it has to be realistic. Forget about all the abstract stuff. I could never understand it. There was this guy in the 1950’s named Jackson Pollock. He just drizzled paint all over huge canvases and then drove his car off a road and killed himself. People called him a genius. And, if you Google examples of his work, you can see that his paintings are all quite different. So, he must have had some sort of artistic intention as he drizzled. But I don’t get it.
One time, at the Palm Springs Art Museum, I saw an exhibit of some of Armand Hammer’s collection. I saw this painting called Portrait of a Man holding a Hat by a guy named Rembrandt (who had, apparently, made a fortune whitening teeth and then spent his leisure time painting guys with hats). The painting was amazingly realistic. Now that I can appreciate. If an artist can paint so well as to make me think I’m looking at a photograph, I can appreciate that. I think he could have been a little more creative on the title. Or, at the very least, let us know who the man was who was holding the hat. I mean, I could tell he was a man and that he was holding a hat. See, I think a better title would have been something like, Ted from Down the Street. But, in his defense, the guy was a painter and not a marketing genius.
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Once I was at the Smithsonian. I first went to the National Air and Space Museum and spent the entire morning there. Then I went to one of the art museums (I don’t remember which). I went in, looked at a couple of paintings of people and left. I went to the National Museum of American History and spent the rest of the afternoon there. I love museums of old stuff, but it’s painfully obvious I am unable to appreciate art.
Anyway, back to The Dreamer. I loved the painting even though it wasn’t realistic. It was painted in a style called Impressionism; which was invented by a guy named Monet. It means that you just use little dots or strokes of paint to give the impression of the reality of the scene. And Renoir sure gave me an impression. I felt as if I were dreaming right along with the young girl in the picture. And, I tell ya, I gotta appreciate anyone who can paint something so cool while only using little dots of paint. I wouldn’t have the patience for it.
So, maybe I can appreciate some art. As long as it looks realistic. Drizzles of paint, not so much.
And I know dance is considered art. My maternal grandfather loved the ballet. My dear friend, Marge, who passed away about a year ago, was a ballet dancer in her youth. She traveled to New York each year for a ballet festival. When she returned from her trip, she’d excitedly tell me all about the dances she saw while I made snoring sounds. She’d smack me and then change the subject to baseball so I could participate in the conversation. I mean, I’m happy that these people can dance around all graceful and stuff, but I don’t have to watch it. And, come on. We all know why women like to go to the ballet. Those pants on the men leave very little to the imagination, if you know what I mean.
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A good friend of mine went to one of those Circus of the Soliel things in Vegas. He raved about the amazing things these people could do with their bodies. Again, I’m happy that they can turn somersaults and climb on ropes and stuff, but I can’t imagine spending over a hundred bucks to watch them do it.
Recently I went to a dance recital for my granddaughter. She, of course, was magnificent. The single best hip hop (whatever that is) dancer who was ever born. She was only in one number, but there were about 20 dances. So, while I patiently waited for her performance to come up, I watched all the other children dance in what were predominantly ballet numbers. They all had beautiful costumes and were all age-appropriately graceful. But as they all danced about on their tippy-toes, all I could think was, Why don’t they just get taller kids?
Following the recital, I mentioned this to my granddaughter and was met with the usual rolling of her eyes. I like to think she tolerates me…
