Pulling No Punches on Minimalist Art and Monet
A reader weighs in on his day of culture
“Not since my doctor gave me a throat swab have I had so much culture!” declares Boomer reader Jimmy R. Coleman in this From Our Readers tale. He shares his visit to the National Gallery of Art in Washington, D.C., readily sharing his opinions on Minimalist art and Monet.
My darling wife urged – make that prodded – and when that didn’t get the result she was hoping, for she gently goaded me into accompanying her to a Claude Monet exhibit. I learned sometime last century, the better part of valor is not only to stop digging, light your pipe and agree to what’s proposed; true to myself, I consented to join her on an excursion that turned out better than I imagined possible. Our gas gauge showed a smidgen below a quarter tank, more than enough, or so I thought, to get us there and back.
My last painting-appreciation fling was about the time my little peach dragged me to the National Gallery of Art in our nation’s capital. My eyes let the brain cells know they were not that impressed with what they were directed to look at. As a case in point, I endured having to watch a couple ole biddies “ooh” and “aah” over several expensive-looking frames encasing canvases displaying next to nothing, one showing two colored parallel lines intersected by a black vertical line. Yet another twist, no doubt added to the world’s great mysteries, was a white canvas showing two colored circles appearing adjacent to one another, void of anything else my eyes could feast upon. I looked around hoping I might perhaps see a dead squashed fly on the wall or, dare I say it, a nose booger someone had flipped to the middle of one of the circles. I figured that once it had dried and been assimilated in the artwork, it would give birth to a new and improved artsy-fartsy analysis. Blame it on my Texas ignert’ance, but it never registered how supposedly well-educated well-to-do’s and their wannabe’s can stand around a painting, deep in thought, expressing high-minded priggishness among themselves like they know something the rest of us don’t. What did our mother’s fail to teach us for us, too, too see what our betters see?
Some folks, but not many, accuse me of keeping my opinions to myself. On this occasion, however, I let my tongue get out ahead of itself to express a pearl of wisdom, in a whisper loud enough to be heard by anyone caring to listen. “My first-grade art teacher gave me a ‘D’ when I handed her a similar masterpiece.” My honey-bunch shushed me like freedom of speech had just gone out the window. “This style of art is often referred to as abstract or minimalist painting,” she so informed me. A je ne sais quoi looking for an appropriate name. Several other descriptive words came to mind, but minimalist painting seemed apropos in describing what was staring back at me.
At the risk of putting you to sleep, I feel compelled to add one other tidbit regarding our visit to The Nation’s Attic. The Cascade Café is situated between the art museum’s West (the Old Masters) and East (modern “art”) Buildings. It also serves as a good place to read a book or watch a football game on your cell while enjoying a cup of java. Your better half can then take their time in viewing the other wing of the museum. In my case I wish we had started with the Old Masters side of things, allowing me to take a break and hold down the fort, granting the Missus a peace and quiet to “ooh” and “aah” to her heart’s content.
While taking such a break, I saw this guy in the Concourse walkway connecting the two wings regurgitate, if you will, or, given the high-brow environs, abdicate his food stuff. It of course could have been something the poor fellow ate but I could not but help notice he was coming from the direction of the East Wing that housed Minimalist art, so who can really say what made him spill his beans?
The mess was cleaned up quickly, more precisely covered up with a glob of paper towels, waiting for Godot to show up. A few plastic barriers were set up to re-direct the walkway. It was then a funny thought crossed my mind – once the substance dried on its makeshift paper canvas, perhaps an up-and-coming artist could frame and hang it on the wall in the East Wing as another Minimalist painting? The ole biddies I saw earlier would probably view this new addition, as the French might phrase it, as the crème de la crème of l’art minimaliste. It certainly would have more Ooh La La texture, organic or otherwise, and a vibrant rough tactile composition that was sorely lacking in the current wall hangers.
From Minimalist art to Monet
I am guilty of digressing from our visit to the Claude Monet exhibit. I must admit, even this ole stick-in-the-mud liked the exhibit. This French Impressionist left me as advertised, with an immersive experience filled with more than a handful of “oohs” and “aahs”! In fact, my reaction so moved my wife that she asked if I would like to go see another French Impressionist, Edgar Degas, who had an exhibit a few miles down the road. Sounded like a plan, but we first needed to fill up the van before heading across town. We were just above running on fumes.
Who knows, perhaps I was starting to get the hang of things, like catching just a smattering of the Art Appreciation bug. I might even have to revisit the museum’s East Wing. That said, I’ll still have to hold my nose and bypass the Minimalist display … but hopefully the other stuff will catch my fancy, at least permitting me to see it in a somewhat different light.
Unfortunately, we were unable to further my art appreciation that day. I inadvertently left my billfold in another coat, and my wife left hers at home since I was driving. I hated to tell her, “Honey, I’m afraid we don’t have enough monet for degas to make the van gogh!”
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