I’m not a sophisticated man. I’ll admit it – my tastes can be pretty low-brow. I prefer a merlot to a claret. I would much rather enjoy one of Puccini’s worst operas than sit through one of Wagner’s best. Such is my common background.
So, when I went to the Museum of Modern Art the other day, I’m not surprised that my interest flagged as the art became more and more sophisticated. As with most people, I appreciate art in the same way that most kids are taught to appreciate art. Remember how it was when you were a kid and you presented that first crayon drawing of a dog to your Mom? The highest level of excitement was in the recognition of whatever it was you were attempting to convey.
Flash forward 30 years and I’m still the same way. In the crowd of beret-wearing pseudo-intellectual beatniks nodding thoughtfully and commenting on how the pigmentation reflects the artist’s conception of the Treaty of Ghent, I’m the one saying, “I get it! It’s a tree!” I’m also the one who is slightly put off by the high volume of naked fat chicks that clearly ran rampant in the art world during the Renaissance. I’m not embarrassed by their nudity, but more disturbed by their generally somber and moody expressions. My line of thinking is that if you’re just hangin’ around naked on a sofa all day, your life is not that bad. I dunno, maybe they were just mad because people were always painting them.
Unfortunately, even this limited art appreciation fails me when we get into the really minimalist stuff. My particular favorite piece at MOMA is a slab of marble in the middle of the floor upon which each morning is poured a small puddle of milk. The milk is then wiped off the slab each night. This piece concerns me because my recognition technique of art appreciation is threatened by it. Yes, it is quite clearly a piece of marble with milk on it – there is no challenge and therefore no reward in the recognition of the object. To use the recognition technique in this section of the museum might lead me to inadvertently standing in front of light fixtures and fire alarms with a glass of Chablis and nodding appreciatively.
Ah, nodding. The quintessential seal of approval from the art intelligentsia. What precisely are they noddding at? In general, a nod is considered a gesture – i.e. a body movement designed to communicate information. But just what is being communicated? “I acknowledge the existence of this painting.” “Yes, this is Van Gogh’s “Starry Night.” I can confirm the accuracy of the little sign.” More than likely, however, the thoughts running through the mind of the art afficianado are something like, “Why is a picture of a naked woman using a photocopier hanging on the wall?”
Like I said, maybe I’m just not sophisticated enough to understand art. Whatever. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to go change the milk on my slab.