What a Yellow Board Means To Me, or my trip to the BMA

First things first, 6:30a.m. is actually a fine time to be writing in the Academic Center computer lab. I have had my choice of computers and no neighbors, so I feel no guilt while checking NewsoftheWeird.com or Facebook before getting down to the business of writing.

Ahem, now on to the nuts and bolts! This week one of my class assignments took me to the Baltimore Museum of Art--which is free, easily accessible by walk (which I did), or the #3 bus (I love that bus). The walk was not short, but it was festive as the day was Saturday and the marathoners were out, well, marathoning. (Did you know that marathons are always 26 miles long because that is the length the messenger ran to report the Greek victory after the Battle of Marathon--promptly dying? I figure, yes, you did. But my boyfriend was surprised by this bit of news on our walk, so I am sharing again.) I wanted to clap for them, but felt awkward so we clapped discreetly and, basically, mutely so neither us nor the marathoners really got anything out of it, I presume.

However, once we arrived at the BMA I was impressed. First, the collections are great. Secondly, having worked in a museum for a year, I was impressed--that word again-- by the ballsy move not to have everything roped off, under plexi, or guarded. They do, of course, have security cameras but I know first hand the damage that can be done between spotting a rogue toucher and getting to them just from across a gallery.

Ignoring the advice of my professor to start in the Cone Collection and choose a piece to get intimate with, Lane--the boyfriend--and I decide to start at the bottom and work our way up. He devised a systematic approach so we wouldn't have to double back. (He does this everywhere we go. As I am perpetually lost on my own, I am grateful for this quirk.) We ended up seeing just about everything. Just about because we skipped Poe, planning to get him next time as it was wall to wall bodies in there. We saw Rodin's The Thinker. This bears repeating: The Thinker is inside the BMA. And, you haven't seen it until you've really seen it. We saw sculpture and paintings, domestic arts, foreign artifacts....it is a lot and it is all very interesting.

Except, well, except the modern art. I know art is subjective. I know that people read literature that I love and stick out their tongues and gag. I know if I try to talk theory with non-literary scholars they really don't care to know. And, that's okay. I don't like my sister's pharmaceutical jokes, either, but they crack her up. (She's a pharmacist. When two or more pharmacists get together, it is not funny. Trust me.)

But, I feel at once intimidated by abstract art and kind of infuriated by it. For instance, one of the pieces is a yellow plank of wood against an otherwise blank wall. This, in itself, was mystifying. But, then, I read the accompanying explanation. There was a lot of weight assigned to this yellow plank including that it echoed human proportions. I, perhaps, at 5'4", am not the best example of normal human proportions, but I'm fairly certain a plank over 7ft tall and rectangular isn't either.

When working at that museum I mentioned earlier I got to talk to art professionals--art historians, curators, photographers, and various visual artists--about their work: what it means and why. I learned to appreciate the play of color and shape. That, to me, is something like a nonsense poem where a writer gets to play with sound. But, then, what is the other value being ascribed? Did the artist make that up? (See David Sedaris for why I firmly believe this to be possible. Or, at least, as a confirmation of belief.) Did someone else? Did they go a little too far? If I handed them my nephew's watercolor could they make it seem equally significant and filled with underlying tension? (He's two. So, I bet.)

Like wine, I want to like it. I want to get it. I have a college degree. I'm getting another one. I feel like I should be able to look and go, "Oh, yes. I see exactly what the artist was commenting on by splashing red paint only on the right corner of this otherwise blank canvas." But, of course, I don't.

In an attempt to let collegiate experiences broaden my mind, I am going to try to stop judging them. You know, thinking things like, "Well, I'm pretty sure I doodled that during Trig in 2002." or "I have to become an installation artist. I have this great collection of pet fur since I haven't vacuumed my apartment in two days."

I am going to do as Sister Wendy said: Look. Look again. And, if nothing happens, I am going to accept that not all pieces were meant for me.

Although, I gotta wonder what her take on the yellow plank would be.

Three things I found this week: I like Degas, but apparently he did not like women. Sister Wendy. If you don't know her, look her up! And, finally, I am terrible at sneaking out of my apartment--the dogs always know.

Three things I still need to find: Material for a quilt square. Whether or not kids trick-or-treat in my apartment complex. My sanity--I must have lost it to decide to get up at six rather than write this blog at ten p.m. last night.