The Strange Effect of Art Museums
Wandering the quiet, low-lit halls, alone with my thoughts; I study the fascinating subjects, rich colors, brushstrokes, and read the sensuous descriptions of the paintings before me. The sculptures, with their smooth, marble surfaces cut expertly into folds of lace and seemingly rippling muscle or soft skin make it difficult to heed the warning signs, "DO NOT TOUCH!" THere are paintings of soft sunset light caressing contemplative faces and grand vistas of cool, breathtaking lands. I want to dance with the joyful dancing man on the ferry-boat in the American art section or bathe with the figures in the Impressionist's. The human body is probably one of the most beautiful things I have ever seen- a few of the paintings make me proud that I am a woman with the same womanly mystery and grace. In the Egyptian display, even death is made beautiful.
I leave with an intense desire to roll down the luscious green grass on Art Hill and swim in the cool fountain. The sun feels unusually tantalizing and warm, and a tentative breeze weaves between my toes. I feel keenly it is too bad we inherited shame of nakedness at "the fall" because my clothes suddenly feel inconsequential. If there was a man at my elbow, it would be difficult for me not to make out with him, and I think that a delicious meal of savory, aesthetic delectibles would not be out of place either.
And I realize that the essence of art is man's attempt to capture the inexplicable experience of what it is to be human. I understand the necessity of art in a way that I hadn't known before.
I walk back to my car wondering if I should return to the art museum more often to be reminded of this,
or if I should limit my excursions for fear of becoming too aware of my already heightened senses.
I leave with an intense desire to roll down the luscious green grass on Art Hill and swim in the cool fountain. The sun feels unusually tantalizing and warm, and a tentative breeze weaves between my toes. I feel keenly it is too bad we inherited shame of nakedness at "the fall" because my clothes suddenly feel inconsequential. If there was a man at my elbow, it would be difficult for me not to make out with him, and I think that a delicious meal of savory, aesthetic delectibles would not be out of place either.
And I realize that the essence of art is man's attempt to capture the inexplicable experience of what it is to be human. I understand the necessity of art in a way that I hadn't known before.
I walk back to my car wondering if I should return to the art museum more often to be reminded of this,
or if I should limit my excursions for fear of becoming too aware of my already heightened senses.
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