Saturday, February 9, 2008

Oy vey. So much to do, so much to do. Yet I'm bullshitting on the internet, what a life.

I went home the other day to take care of business. Not much was done. I voted. It was very.. how do you say? 'underwhelming'? There was also a court hearing for some folks that got arrested for asking a politician to push for impeachment hearings, but the date was bumped. I was looking forward to it for some strange reason.

I had some other things to tend to as well, but they were somewhat immediate in their undertaking, and not very exciting, and so it might as well have not happened at all. I was also planning on seeing another Bob Dylan film at the film forum but that didn't happen either. Instead I went to the Met for no particular reason other than that its my default locale when money is a problem.
Generally it has had the record of being very inspiring, and provides a kind of intangible sanctuary for my mind. Maybe I haven't been there in a while, or perhaps my ideas have changed too radically since my last visit, but I really wasn't impressed with anything. If anything, I was pretty panicked.

Strangely enough, the last few times I can remember going, my usual haunts were held in storage. I remember making inquiries to the information desk, and making it clear I had come from Baltimore to examine them. They were all there this time; Anselm Keifer "Bohemia Lies by the Sea", Van Gogh's "Woman Rocking a Cradle", the blue painting of Cezanne's wife, and a few Hans Hoffmans. The Joan Mitchell wasn't there, but it's just as well.
I've been trying to figure out why this experience has been so disappointing in spite of still maintaining a sense of inferiority in standing in front of these monsters. The only thing I could come up with was the white walls.

I don't think I'm making too much a stretch in saying that it's really stifling to see really gritty, dirty-almost paint stuck onto these bitchy walls, totally devoid of character. I do wonder how Keifer would feel to see these huge, heavy paintings loaded up with pain and anguish and struggle, and then have it mounted onto pristine white surfaces. It's a total farce. It's like having someone that is losing their shit, having a panic attack on top of a podium broadcasting to people in suits trespassing on their misery. Then again I don't pretend Keifer and I were good 'ole pals, so its hard to say. But if it were me, well.. I'm sure you can guess.
The same thing with the Cezanne and Van Gogh paintings. Cezanne treated his wife like total shit. So naturally I like studying the marks for a while trying to trace anything, and all of a sudden a group of these 30-50 year old schmucks bombarded it trying to decipher whether or not it was part of the days' scavenger hunt. God. Then for the Van Gogh painting, there was a fucking line to take pictures of it. The concept of appreciating it in the physical realm is a total absurdity apparently. Am I right?

Oh art world, how I cherish thee.

P.S. The Jasper Johns show; a waste of time. His paintings bore me to tears. The Lithos and one or two drawings were good though.

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