The Art in Learning

We reached the top of the stairs and were looking upon three huge paintings. I was there under duress, age 11, with my dad and his mom. I looked upon the paintings without much feeling. My dad, always the teacher, told me to look closer. When I examined the painting on the right, I saw that the Friar was holding a young boy's tongue over his head.

I didn't know if I should be grossed out or if that would, as a reaction, encourage our trip to the Art Institute. I was a consummate student, but even this seemed to be reaching past my acceptable level of nerdiness. I decided to show some mild shock and hung back as we walked through the different wings.

By the end of my visit, I couldn't hold back. I wasn't an instant fan of art, but there was something so regal and magnificent about Sunday on la Grande Jatte. About Jackson Pollack's canvases. The miniature houses, the blown-glass paperweights, the furniture. All of it seemed to radiate emotions. I could sense the desperation in Hopper's "Nighthawks at the Diner." I didn't understand, but I appreciated Van Gogh's point of view.

At that point, I hadn't full embrace my own artistry. I didn't understand that most renowned artists are plagued, in some variation, by madness, depression, alcoholism, etc. There is something so ephemeral about ideas. They are fleeting, they are transient, they skitter around like frantic houseflies. I have learned how important it is to write these ideas down. I have been frustrated by conceiving of beautiful story lines only to reach pen and paper and realize they departed hours earlier.

I don't do subtlety well. I always struggled to find themes or subtext. I find that, for me, the art of my writing is in re-writing. I am able to strip words away until I am hinting at how something feels or looks. It's not a sledgehammer driving a railway nail; it's the faint whisper of someone's perfume as they have already passed you and are gone.

I, therefore, am amazed at the juxtaposition of art and writing. The oil-soaked canvases have peaks and valleys of paints. Pollack's works didn't impact me until I saw the movie starring Ed Harris. I watched Mr. Harris channel Mr. Pollack. I saw the canvas transformed. I used to look at those kind of paintings and think, I could do that. But even in his works, there is subtlety. He doesn't simply fill the entire canvas; there are blank spots, voids, pauses.

Monet is a favorite; for my money, I enjoy his perspective on the world. I used to think that my writing had to be dark, the groanings of a tortured artist. Now I know that it can evoke emotions that long lay dormant. I know the power of words can transform paper into pictures. When I read, I see the story as a movie, not as one-dimensional words, but people interacting, moving around. I think Monet saw beauty and felt obligated to capture it. I love that he seemed to see the world through cheesecloth, as Ingrid Bergman is portrayed on film; gauzy and soft, radiant. That, to me, means that he focused on the beauty and softened harsh edges, wherever he saw them.

I watched Pleasantville when it came out. I know reviews on it were mixed, but for my money, I think it spoke to the fact that passion awakens you. I don't believe it was just sensual passion; there were people who had awakenings of all sorts. I remember watching the scene where Joan Allen and Jeff Daniels are in the diner, after she's become "colored." He is showing her Picasso's "Weeping Woman," telling her that the woman is happy. With tears in her eyes, Joan Allen says, "no, she's crying." And in that instant, I saw what she saw. I understood that art is transformed by our experiences. It's not static; each painting, each statue, takes on new meaning as new life experiences unfold.

I am amazed when I re-read things I've written. I have different reactions. I am shocked that I could have been so naive. I am humbled by revelations I made or revealed that I never noticed before. I uncover new treasures where I thought they had all been pillaged. It's an interesting idea, that the beauty of art is in the eye of those beholding it. Most modern art eludes me, but that doesn't mean it's not art. It doesn't mean there isn't something magical about transforming different media into a narrative.

I don't get to the Art Institute much anymore. Living in suburbia with three kids will do that to you. I discovered rather harshly in high school that art, in the traditional sense, is not my forte. I took one art class and just failed. I produced one or two great pieces, but overall I was not able to use my hands to transform the ideas in my head into 2- or 3-D works of art. It was very humbling. I had hoped that I had some latent talent for drawing, or painting or what have you, but no. I learned the valuable lesson that we cannot be whatever we want to be. I am not meant to paint. My drawings are rudimentary at best. I lack the ability to see a creation in a pile of raw materials. I love watching Project Runway. I am amazed that there are people who can look at fabric and conceive wearable pieces of art. They sketch at the beginning of the show, giving hints as to what the finished garment will look like. I have a difficulty seeing it as they do, but it's amazing to see them transform something flat and without life into a breathtaking garment.

A poem birthed itself in my head today. I will share it in it's infancy. I hope it demonstrates that though my medium is different, my words pile on the page to weave a rich tapestry.

O beautiful fruit, sprouting
between my heart and my
womb. Cells divide
distance between us, tendrils contract
the soul we share. Every day my body
rises; limbs transform
empty space into occupied. New
you replaces unused me, replaces
selfish, replaces vacuous. Reborn I feel
gravity's new pull, heavy, binding
weighing down expectations.
I groan
low and loud, feeling spasms
twisting my abdomen, water
spilling forth, revealing life.
Silence
fills my mouth, dry and cracked
as your body, drenched
with possibility rests on mine; tears
cloud my mind, gravity shifts
as I contemplate
my new universe, exploded forth
with beauty. My creation, new life moves
it's tendrils into my heart, implanting
love
adoration
fear.