What might the artist’s message be? What was he trying to say?
Thumbtacks secured a length of string reaching from the floor to the
wall and Carey pondered the installation with concern. All she could get from it was, well, office
supplies. Was she really that
shallow? Sigh. The eyeball projected on a glass ball was
equally bemusing. But wait. What is this?
She spotted a series of ridged gills emanating a stream of air. Inhalation and exhalation. Breath!
The sustenance of life! She
glanced about, smiling with satisfaction, eager to share her insight with some
other patron.
Something held her back though, and she studied the oeuvre more closely. Hmm.
Ah. Upon closer review she
realized the structure was… an air vent.
Oops.
What is art? Centuries ago, it was defined and regulated
by the church. Artists worked their
craft in light and shadow, color, portraiture, movement, and emotion through
religious themes. I’ve wandered wearily through the galleries of the Uffizi and
Accademia in Florence glazing over at one Annunciation, Nativity, Crucifixion,
and Resurrection after another… and don’t get me started on the torments of the
saints. Agony… for everyone involved.
With a little inner remonstrance to pull myself together,
I’ve sought to get past the themes and focus on the paintings’ elements:
depictions of village life, building interiors, fashion, and drapery; the extraordinary
skill in realistic representation; the emotion conveyed with paint on
canvas. While I prefer Hudson River
landscapes, I recognize artistic skill and beauty. Go back a few centuries and the “what is
art?” question is unnecessary.
It’s the use of feces as a medium that really throws me.
But I do understand that art can inform and provoke. On a recent trip to The Ringling Museum of
Art in Sarasota, FL, Dave and I were transfixed by a series of photographs
taken at an African diamond mine. Laden with ponderous sacks, black laborers,
so numerous that any identity was obscured, waited in line to scale rickety
wooden ladders up a cliff. Startling in his unblemished shirt and arrogant
whiteness, an overseer stood with his clipboard amid the sea of sweating,
over-burdened workers.
It was a grueling scene and underscored how little I know of
exploitation, how supremely fortunate I am in my life.
As Dave and I continued on toward the Monda Gallery, a
mother and young daughter emerged. The
child spun, skipped, and bubbled with excitement. “That was SO much fun!” she said.
“I knew you’d like it!” her mom replied.
Fun? I was still haunted by the diamond mine, and fun
sounded good.
We entered a dimly lit, lofty room hung floor to ceiling
with ribbons, thousands and thousands of multi-colored ribbons, a sea of
swaying stained glass. Soft classical
music and birdsong conveyed a sense of cathedral quiet and deep forest, yet all
who entered added their own melody of pure joy and discovery.
Small children whirled in giddy circles shrieking with
laughter. Teenagers chattered and took
pictures with their phones. Others
walked slowly in a moving meditation, the ribbons parting and falling gently
into place as they passed through.
Smiling as ribbons slid over my face and skin like a breeze,
I held out my arms to let the ribbons flow from them like waterfalls. Every movement was novel, a personal creation
of sound, color, dance, and joy.
What is art? It’s
still an open question, but I found it
in “Pathless Woods.”
Note: Anne Patterson, the creator of “Pathless Woods,” has synesthesia, a condition that causes sensory perceptions to overlap; when she hears sound, she sees color. In this installation, the artist helps participants experience that same merge as they create their own path through 8472 ribbons - the equivalent of 25.6 miles – cut into 16’ lengths. If it comes to a museum near you, GO!
