The mind is so complex, that I don’t think I could have done this in my head if I had not just hung up the Wyeth paintings or had my eye turned by all the ship and boat paintings or pictures I have in my collection (collection being a fluid word for my intimate collection of memories through art pieces whether paintings, camera’s, or other select items).
It started with the hope for a poem. I wrote the words art museum, knowing that the scrolling through social media was not near enough art and inspiration for me. I even had sunflowers in a vase sparking the burning in my brain of the poor unadmired in his time artist who once had to use his painting as a covering for a chicken coop.
Then suddenly, from the first line my pen touched to the page, if I were in the art museum, I was whisked off. (I’ve been watching Doctor Who lately, so I can only say it’s rather like stepping into the big blue box for the umpteenth time and still in awe of the splendor.)
But even there, sat on my bed with books in front of me and a pen in my hand, my eyes were not seeing any of that, only tracing the halls of every single section of the art museum with individual paintings suddenly taking up the whole of the mind, rather the way you click to enlarge something on the screen. I could see it all, see each painting, sculpture, instillation from the many places I stood.
I’m not sure how everyone’s mind works, but I feel so blessed to have been able to study the paintings so often that I could recall them so vividly both the frame, the painting, the texture, and their placement in the grand scheme of the museum layout. Although, the names of so many are lost on me. It’s funny, because all of that so often lies dormant in the mind until something sparks it and all of a sudden a whole creation full of creations expands in the mind. And sure, I started to get some pieces from The Mary Stewart Gardner (paintings of Florence) or the Rijkmuseum confused (the illustrious ship painting that, oh, see now I can’t remember his name, the man who was both accepted at the Salon while also being a part of the impressionists exhibition with the red hair, Manet, that was it, did). But I recognized that I had seen those in other places and put them back to where they belonged in the mind. Even when watching the latest season of Bojack, I was that person going Hey, hold on, those art pieces are actually from the subsequent rooms, which of course made my brother groan and call me a nerd—a name badge I wear with pride.
But how much of the mind is so often dormant. How much of the mind can see beyond the scope of the immediate to the stores of majestic beauty. I think for me, I am a visual thinker and have a visual memory, so it’s easy for me to pull up images. This is probably why I am a photographer. It may also be why I get lost in books sometimes to my own focal sight and can miss some details in reading. But I think this also just shows how powerful art can be. How the greatness can linger in the mind and be a luxury as well as escape.
So I hope you are all able to find visual escapes during the redundancies of view in quarantine. And I hope when things open back up, you are able to visit every singe beautiful place you can to keep it in your heart and head for moments like these when we can be so grateful we have something to fill our space to reflect.
Even having been to the Louvre, the Uffizi, the Academia Galleria, the National Gallery in London, the Van Gogh Museum, and countless others, I must admit that the Art Institute of Chicago is, and will always be, my favorite art museum. In partial because of the wondrous collection they have, but probably more so because of my ability to go so often, I can recall so much of the individual art pieces that reside there.
Here’s the poem that led my walk through of the museum. How many artworks appear in your mind?
if I were in the art museum
and all of time transfixed,
and the blue guitar strummed a sad song
unsatisfied with the pink pop of the electric chair
and the impression of sunrise over the city
dropped my mouth more than the girl in the bath,
and the ghost sheet of a piano
made a new sound, eerie as the doorknob
behind Dorian Gray, & the night hawk
screeches a yellow light, igniting the
greyed rainbow so the dogs on hunt could
blur like the billowing smoke from king’s cross
so the girl washing her feet knew to run to
seclusion from the populous Sunday in the park
away from the stilled life of the butcher shop
with the head of John the Baptist
on silver plate, and the study
of the skull could pull the mind from ruin,
those large arches passed by with volute
kraters for the greater spring than the
nymphs could bring along the lantern
lit dock, and the girls with oranges
can share the sweet color with the fish tank,
a new instillation like the prayers on the red carpet
prayers not to Zeus the swan or Buddha in ohm
but to inspiration miniature room previews
all crystal and thorns born anew, burn to nail to the wood
and find the good in the desert scape,
then the mind could unwind in colors
as emotional as the wind, and all the soul
could find its whole reflected deep within.
I hope you visualized some Dali, Hopper, Magritte, Cezanne, Degas, Monet, Van Gogh, Seurat, Koons, Picasso, Warhol, Richter, Pollock, and more. And I hope when this is all over you are able to go see them in person.