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writer's house journal: mirrors
Whenever I've been to the gallery before, exhibits haven't.
Acutally the last time I was in Art/Soc was November 15th last year. I was helping with an event- playing with shark's teeth and watching Dr. Merck threaten high schoolers with a rubber velociraptor claw, mostly. I have the beginning of a journal entry about thath afternoon saved, unfinished. Because I was interrupted by a knock at the door...
Dad was never fond of "modern art." I disliked it for a long time in his favor. Part of growing up, I guess-- these days there are some pieces I quite like & will admit I find a lot of it intriguing and every bit as worthwhile as more traditional stuff. Still, standing in front of some pieces here today, I can't help being tempted to say, in the same comically pompous voice he always used, "But is it art?"
Only no one here would get the joke.
For two years my mental archetype of university art galleries was this place, locked and dark, through the glass windows. When Dad told us over supper about his lunchtime strolls through Annapolis, stopping in at the gallery at St. John's for early Warhols or Catlins or Western cowboy paintings, this is where I'd place him, even though I know the space at St. John's is probably dramatically different.
He didn't want to change his mind about modern art. He liked his ideas & he'd stick with them. Not that he wasn't brave, not that he wasn't intellectually inquiring-- but he'd mostly stopped changing his mind. Even Pop-pop wanted to read Harry Potter. Somehow, Dad got old when we weren't watching. And then he wasn't.
I colud have sworn it was a mirror hanging in the exhibit, but itc's not, it's cloth, the same semi-transparent cloth he helped up hand for the heaven scenes in Carousel. It's still a mirror, even if it lets through rather than reflects.
Doors are also mirrors.
Acutally the last time I was in Art/Soc was November 15th last year. I was helping with an event- playing with shark's teeth and watching Dr. Merck threaten high schoolers with a rubber velociraptor claw, mostly. I have the beginning of a journal entry about thath afternoon saved, unfinished. Because I was interrupted by a knock at the door...
Dad was never fond of "modern art." I disliked it for a long time in his favor. Part of growing up, I guess-- these days there are some pieces I quite like & will admit I find a lot of it intriguing and every bit as worthwhile as more traditional stuff. Still, standing in front of some pieces here today, I can't help being tempted to say, in the same comically pompous voice he always used, "But is it art?"
Only no one here would get the joke.
For two years my mental archetype of university art galleries was this place, locked and dark, through the glass windows. When Dad told us over supper about his lunchtime strolls through Annapolis, stopping in at the gallery at St. John's for early Warhols or Catlins or Western cowboy paintings, this is where I'd place him, even though I know the space at St. John's is probably dramatically different.
He didn't want to change his mind about modern art. He liked his ideas & he'd stick with them. Not that he wasn't brave, not that he wasn't intellectually inquiring-- but he'd mostly stopped changing his mind. Even Pop-pop wanted to read Harry Potter. Somehow, Dad got old when we weren't watching. And then he wasn't.
I colud have sworn it was a mirror hanging in the exhibit, but itc's not, it's cloth, the same semi-transparent cloth he helped up hand for the heaven scenes in Carousel. It's still a mirror, even if it lets through rather than reflects.
Doors are also mirrors.