E and I spent our evening at the San Francisco Modern Art Museum. I've been looking forward to visiting this museum since we moved here and so when I found out E is required to go for one of his college classes, I was ecstatic! After driving through traffic and rain, our little family arrived at the MOMA, greeted by guys with thick-rimmed glasses and turtlenecks. It was everything you would expect from a modern art museum. We entered the first floor of art and our eyes were drawn to a painting by the famous Henri Mattise. Next came work by Georges Braque. And next was work by Pablo Picasso. What started out as a great trip, quickly turned dim. I know modern art gets bashed a lot ("My kindergartner could do better than that!") so I've always tried to keep an open mind about it, but as I walked from room to room I found myself disappointed. I know so many talented people whose work deserves to be displayed and yet I stood in a room with a large canvas covered in black paint? I have no doubt that there are layers of beauty underneath and while I may not understand what the artist went through to get there, my only thoughts were how much of a waste of space it was to hang up some of these pieces.
I wasn't too upset until I made my way to the next floor...the photography floor. I was excited to see some Dorthea Lange which was rumored to have been at this particular museum. There was none. We walked into a room filled with dark, nudity covered prints everywhere. It wasn't even the type of nudity that I studied at my Christian fine arts class... (roman sculptures, etc.) which is expected at museums....instead, it was sickly, gross images that need no more description. I told my husband to watch the floor and covered my son's eyes as we quickly paced through the rooms trying to find photography that actually captured something worthwhile. We made it to the end and...nothing. I think the thing that made me the most upset was the emotion this artist was trying to convey. From the quick glances I had here and there I could feel her torment (and maybe that was the point) but it only saddened me to know that her temporary fame was at the cost of a joy-less reality. It also upset me that now these stupid images will forever be burned into my head...just another way to de-sensitize America.
The third floor was just large installations. There were beams on the floor, a white-painted 2x4 and paper with oil stains. Again, I didn't see the point, but whatever... We reached the end of our journey and I insisted that we go back one more time to view the Picasso piece just so I wouldn't feel like we wasted our money. I was disappointed to say the least.
I think what really hit me, though, was the people inside the museum. I watched several scattered throughout with their notebooks and pens, trying to interpret the art. They all looked the same. Every girl had oxfords, skinny jeans, a cute coat and scarf, thick-rimmed glasses and either a pixie cut or a top-knot ponytail. The same could be said of the guys. How is it that all these people are trying to "express themselves" and "be creative"..."artistic"..."different" and yet they all looked the same? Every person looked like a copy of the next. And still, it's safe to assume that the ones that are art students were trying to find inspiration to help them differentiate their work and help them to stand out. I don't know if they realized how deep they would have to dig in order to get a piece that would be wall-worthy at this museum. Almost every piece was dark and disturbing. Some were just outright stupid but others clearly had emotion painted all over them. It can be argued that the pieces are raw and honest but I wonder if in the end it was worth it? As an artist myself, I know how critical I can be of my own work. It's never good enough and I wonder if it ever will be. I can only imagine some of the agony some of these artists felt as they created their work. Some may have created art to ease their depression and others may have reached for depression to create their art. Either way, they are all dead and their work wasn't appreciated until several years after.
I left that museum with a heavy heart. When I arrived home, I googled the photographer whose work disturbed me so, only to find out that she committed suicide by throwing herself out a window at age 22. All her searching and self-mutilating expression was done in vain. Her story breaks my heart and reminds me all the more to spread the good news of Jesus Christ. We will only ever find peace and joy in a personal relationship with our Savior.
Sorry if this whole entry was choppy...my thoughts are scattered but I still felt the need to share.
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