“What’s over there?” Rachel asked, nodding toward a wall where people were flocking.
“I don’t know, maybe it’s—oh!”
In front of me hung Starry Night. It kind of resembled the print in my 6th grade classroom. That is to say, there was the swirling sky, the spire-like trees and the little village. But the similarities ended there. The Starry Night in the Museum of Modern Art was more vibrant than any print. Swirls of aqua and streaks of emeralds float on the canvas and brighten the night scene.
I’m usually not one for modern art. Most of the time, I feel like I am in some kind of version of The Emperor’s New Clothes. You know, like there is actually no deeper meaning to the painting/sculpture, but the artist, knowing you don’t want to viewed as uncouth, tells you it is representative of some deep, provocative something.
To which you respond with a sophisticated, “Ah, indeed.”
I am trying hard to appreciate modern art and push aside my suspicious nature (“Is the artist trying to trick me?”). Instead of attempting to decipher a meaning out of Jackson Pollack’s splattered mayhem, I just let my eyes ramble from one line to another.
I surprised myself when I realized I actually liked it.
There is something both classic and grungy-urban about the painting. The overall canvas looks like marble, but a minute later, it resembles graffiti. (Maybe it’s what the ancient Greeks would have done with arsenal cans….)
I’m still not a big fan of modern art after World War II—a wheel bolted onto a whitewashed stool just isn’t going to cut it for me— but I think I’m learning to find beauty in the random.