Admit One - My Need to Lighten the Load
An Artist's Journey In Solitude
Every once in a while, I like to refer to my writing notebook for prompts. This prompt, Admit One, was part of a class I took via Zoom during the pandemic.
Admit One
My admit one will be as the only person allowed into an art museum for a full day. Any one of the major art museums around the globe will do. I travel and have been fortunate to have visited some of the best.
Museum staff will be given the day off. But all necessary lights are on for my optimal viewing pleasure.
My all day pass will allow me to wander the halls without stoic and bored museum guards watching my every move as I initially dance and frolic like a child entering the local corner candy store in 1965 with a handful of coins.
I relish the idea of getting as close as I want to anything and everything without being kicked out. I will, of course, be respectful.
The first section I enter is the prehistoric galleries, where so much of humanity’s innate creativity and ingenuity began. Observing and studying early objects puts everything in perspective. Simplicity, efficiency, utility, and beauty were all important elements in the lives of early civilizations. Creators were respected and revered for their contributions.
After that grounding experience, I would choose to go grand with the Renaissance section.
The voluptuous figures and intense scenes of Tintoretto, Titian, and Raphael are quite a contrast from the rudimentary, stoic, and stiff prehistoric work I just viewed. The detail alone smacks my whole body instantaneously. Visually and emotionally. There is no denying the scene narratives displayed. They are bold, beautiful, and terrifyingly real.
While admiring the size of the paintings (usually floor-to-ceiling), I imagine entering their scenes more intimately—not as a participant but as a direct observer. After spending considerable time with these masters of space illusion, figurative rendering, and drama, I will take a pause because my faculties are completely overwhelmed.
Choosing a bench in an atrium with windows to the sky, I’ll do some deep breathing with natural light on my face and eyes closed. Even reclining on the floor if I feel like it.
Once rejuvenated, I wander toward Van Gogh's works. Any of his works will fulfill my "overly sensitive" sensory needs.
I first saw one of his pieces in person during a museum visit while on a high school band or choir tour. I do not remember the details of where or even the particular piece, just how I felt when looking at it up close—the imagery jumping off the canvas and into my personal aura.
I imagine seeing some of Van Gogh’s amazingly thick, direct, and emotionally charged portraits and lusciously orchestrated landscapes. When observing his work, I feel as though I'm peering into the mind and depth of this artist’s soul. The colors are sensationally vivid. The paint strokes are thick enough to create an almost bas-relief effect. The movement created is both exciting and exhausting. Touching them crosses my mind, but I will restrain.
After that poignant and spectacular roller coaster ride of artistic expression, another respite is in order.
Off to the museum cafe, helping myself to a pastry and hot tea where I will do some serious decompression writing in my journal. All the while enjoying the complete silence of empty chairs and tables. Nothing but my pencil scratching on the paper in my journal and the buzzing thoughts in my head clamoring to escape.
Site-specific or temporary installations are next on my list. I have always been intrigued by installations that encourage and entice physical participation. I prefer a kinesthetic experience in life and learning. I consciously avoid touching objects in “no touchy” spaces like these.
This type of art envelopes your whole self, and the experience is often difficult to describe. No two people encounter the same visceral reaction, and defining the experience to someone else is not the point, at least in my mind.
I visited a museum in Portugal where the artist created a completely dark, enclosed space with only white painted three-dimensional shapes hung randomly on the walls. When I entered, it was pitch black. There was no light from anywhere. I could not see in front of my face and immediately felt claustrophobic, not able to breathe correctly. One of my senses was incapacitated, so I felt out of balance.
Essentially it was the fear of not knowing where to step, if I would bump into something or lose my footing. Panicking, I wanted desperately to find the exit.
Eventually, I allowed my eyes to adjust so that I could see faint shadows and the sculptural shapes that emerged from the walls. More importantly, I began to permit my body to sense the room.
A memorable exercise in the comfortable versus the uncomfortable. Not to mention how we acquiesce to the false fears that keep us caged, knowingly and unknowingly, from some fantastic “out of body” experiences.
After that collective and heady experience, open space, light, color, and broadness are necessary.
It is an ideal time to enter a room full of Mark Rothko paintings. Rothko’s work vibrates within my soul. I would sit and stare while my physical self felt the movement emanating from those large, seemingly flat swaths of paint. Sitting quietly, my mind opens up, releasing all the unnecessary tensions and mindless clutter.
I may even close my eyes, recline, and take a nap.
The first time I saw a Rothko, I thought, “What’s the big deal?”. There is little doubt many viewers feel this way about any work they deem unrealistic in their estimation. Or work where they charge a fourth grader created. Well, Rothko’s work is indeed realistic. But sitting, observing, feeling, and even listening to the work requires time and patience. Your body will let you know just how realistic the experience is.
After being inside most of the day, I must spend some fresh air time outdoors. The life-size or larger-than-life masterpieces in the sculpture garden are usually the last places I visit when visiting an art museum for the reason stated above.
Sitting among the steel, marble, stone, metal, and plastic masterpieces, I gaze at the creative use of materials on such a large scale. I visualize the artists and their assistants working the material to the point of completion (weeks, months, sometimes years), their commitment unwavering toward its finality.
My problem solving artist mind will imagine the installation process and placement.
One of the many things I admire about sculpture gardens is the why, how, and where pieces are placed. Some need to be in the wide open to enhance and expand their sculpture-ness, especially if their purpose is to invite participation. Others can be cleverly hidden among the landscape to surprise those walking by. Unannounced and seemingly fortuitous. Still others are placed as holders of the surrounding landscape. They become part of and one with their setting.
If feeling ballsy, I will touch absolutely everything.
I could go on, but this is the essence of my “day in the art museum”.
So why the desire to be alone with works of art in a museum?
Being in solitude allows for more conscious consideration when in the presence of memorable and influential works of art (or anything that impacts us).
If I am being honest, this is how I would prefer to visit museums all the time. I'm not a fan of crowds, and it’s not because I dislike people (well, sometimes it is). Space, calm, and silence are needed in order to be intentional when viewing and feeling the works of art that move me.
I have sensitivities to noise, body odors, loud talking, footsteps, children, whispering, laughter, stares, etc. All of this distracts me from absorbing the work for the short time I have to do so. When something fills my soul, I prefer to minimize distractions as long as I can stave them off.
Under normal circumstances, I may only spend three hours at an art museum. It takes a great deal of energy to block out all the interruptions and appreciate whatever I am viewing. Exhausting in a good way, but the experience is too abbreviated and never as deep.
I do not always remember specific works of art I have viewed or the museum or gallery in which they were located. Instead, cataloging my sensory encounter and the inspiration I absorbed is the purpose. A whole body experience as opposed to just a passing memory of having seen a popular work of art.
As an abstract artist, the elements of my marks come from deep within my being. The work surfaces as a combination of my conscious and subconscious self, my life’s journey, known and unknown. My creations are meant to be provocative and felt, which is not done through a passive glance. It involves patience and observation.
It is exciting to view, experience, and create work that dares me to feel, question, and ponder. This takes time, intention, and contemplation, and it is best done in solitude.
I encourage you to click on the links I provided within the essay. Thank you for reading.