(Written after having spent time in the gorgeous Whitney Museum of American Art in New York in 2015. All photographs are taken by me)
Art.
Is it like what religion is to few? Irrational but an obsession. Can travel miles to see it. Make it one's own in one's own way. Can proselytize about it. Can dream about it. Can write about it. Not necessarily know it but love it all the same.
I sit in the sun in the 5th floor terrace of the Whitney in New York's meat packing area in its beautiful Piano-designed building, after walking for three straight hours around its 8 floors. And I wonder - why? Half a day here. A full day in MOMA. That's precious time in an expensive city. Is it worth it? Right? Mad? Why? What?
I sit alone on this wooden bench with the Hudson River shimmering in front of me and the New York skyline all jumbled up as far as the eye can see. And I wonder about life. And I wonder about art. And I wonder about poetry. And I wonder which of these is useful for which one.
And am I wrong about everything which I hold dear and precious. Are these worthless?
Inside, I have been walking through the moments of a century of American art. Lot of it could be from anywhere. Lot of it is steeped in the Americans. And like all these here, it is iconoclastic, different, derivative - but ultimately moving. And the only reason one can understand the experience is because they are just people like us - but trying to understand the mechanics and meaning of life, and living through the colors they splash on the canvas.
Artists struggling with deaths of lovers with AIDS. Paintings of political struggles in different shades of black. The wonder of seeing the wonder of this fairyland called New York. The terror of being part of politics steeped in hypocrisy. Embracing and being repelled by the all pervasive consumerism. Fusing one's poverty with one's art with one's politics - by painting on the bed the artist slept on because he had nothing else to paint on - and he couldn't live without painting. The resorting to abstract art because images no longer sufficed to convey the depths of feeling - hence the angry splash of strokes.
When Rothko talks about the "basic human emotions (of) tragedy, ecstasy, and doom" as exemplified in his Four Darks In Red, I know what he means.
When de Kooning despairs with a kind of a woman with her bright yellow dress, high heels and garish smile - I think I know what he means, when he says he feels drama, anger, pain, love all at the same time.
When Reginald Marsh despaired as to what cinema was doing by catering to the lowest common denominator, but also recognized it's cathartic effect during the depression years, I knew what he meant.
When the Circus included not only what was on show, but also who was across - and me - to the person on the other side, I knew what it felt like!!
When Andreas Feininger made the Diver with the breathing apparatus covering the eyes, I smiled wryly.
The grief and despair of Jacob Lawrence's solitary figure on receiving a letter he can barely bear to read, I recognized as my own.
I see kids working in front of an installation of a dysfunctional family which goes around with myriad roles and/or faces, I marvel at the irony.
And I read about John Baldessari's difference between art and photography and i say wow.
And this as protest and anguish.
And the irretrievable irredeemable knots of life as in Eva Hesse's rope installation.
I wonder at the simple but profound feeling of Richard Serra's The Prop. And all it means and could mean.
The baseless machismo of this and the desire for role reversal.
The profundity and depth of loss which only friends and lovers can feel, as in Catherine Opie's Self-portrait where she drew real blood on losing a lesbian lover as well as all the contradictions which came with the relationship.
The more I see art, the more I see poetry. The same concerns, the same stories, the same wounds and the same blood.
I will once more walk these floors before I go back to Times Square and it's continuous celebrations. I want to hear new stories. See new meanings in old ones. See old ones written in new ways. And of learning again that our own personal histories are often found in the stories of others. Because meaning comes from revelation. And we are often blind about ourselves, and only learn about what we are made of by hearing stories of others who have lived similar lives and have felt what we have and faced confusions of life which we have. Resolutions emerge from understanding. And I know I will walk away, if not a wiser, definitely a better person.
An Ask -
What does art mean to you? Do you pass it by when you see it or stop to absorb it? Has a painting moved you to tears, made you think, or left you disturbed? What is your favorite painting or sculpture? The artist you will travel miles to see?
After reading the above essay, do you feel like getting into an art gallery?
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This is brilliant
Awesome. Loved it.. Rothko, Kooning, Pollock, Reinhardt.. so good to see you discussing art.. great way to start the week!