Thirty-one, actually. We went looking for thirty-one men from 34th Street and 5th Avenue down to Union Square. Pleased to say, we were successful.
A remarkable woman I know had suggested that we go find every single Gormley statue and like a treasure hunt we did. We had great fun, persisted when one proved difficult to spot, and over a few warm afternoon hours made our way with a map in hand to identify them.
They are all bronze cast statues of him which made us vaguely familiar with the shape of his body. A little girl, hardly more than four, seemed particularly enthralled by his behind much to her father's embarrassment. He had circular stumps which my companion wished Gormley had found a way to remove and I, apparently mistakenly, believed were a part of the casting process.
No one else seemed interested in doing this which made us wonder if the installation is being appreciated. In truth, I can understand that searching for them on my own might have been much less amusing. My companion was as compulsive as I am and we both agreed that nothing would deter us from seeing each and every one. We wound through the park, across to Lexington, over to Broadway, stopped for water at the Shake Shack. There were moments when our persistence was difficult to maintain. We tried to convince each other that a window ledge was the corner of a head, or that a small water tower was one of the statues with a cape. Fortunately, we continued and proudly checked off each one on our map. The friend we met for one which naturally became two margaritas was pleased to have missed this excursion. Deep into the second sweet, lime tequila beverage, he admitted that he would not have wished to walk through the afternoon heat in order to see every single one.
The proper companion for this sort of activity is important. At a recent studio tour, I saw several unwilling companions walking through the art merely on behalf of their partner. They clearly had neither the interest nor desire to be looking at the works on display. They were merely there in order to be with their partner and even that seemed reluctant. I have to ask whether finding a man (or a woman) is really worth feigning interest in an activity? Why do people feel that they must become tied at the hip and never separated? If they are going to spend a lifetime together will it not eventually be revealed that they do not favor the same activities or pastimes? I find it more interesting to learn later what someone did and how much they enjoyed it, knowing full well that it sounds wonderful only because I did not do it because it would have irritated, bored, frustrated me endlessly. It seems to me like finding a (wo)man should not involve pretending to enjoy an art tour. But I see full well that occasionally there is nothing but pretending to be someone you are not to convince someone who may be doing the same that you want to spend your lives together.
Nothing, not even art, not even a fun quest for 31 naked bronze statues is worth a lifetime with the wrong person.
Not an Art Critic
I am not an art critic. I am, instead, one of those irritating lay people who by virtue of upbringing, education and now preference occasionally impose myself on the art world by observing its current offerings.
I enjoy doing so now but that was not always the case. As a child, I accompanied my parents and their friends to museums, galleries, festivals and street fairs where they looked at art. I was not encouraged to attend but expected to quietly enjoy whatever I did appreciate, though my opinion was largely irrelevant because I was after all just a child. The mysteries of that adult world mingled with their elusive conversations on art and so I find myself some years later having been lured into this obscure world. I have become one of those adults who attends art events, sometimes out of obligation to my continued edification, but usually out of curiosity.
I have not studied art. When I had the option of taking an art history class in high school, I did not because it interfered with a psychology class that I chose to take instead. Despite assorted attempts to teach me how to draw an egg, my drawing still looks like an oblong. In college, I studied philosophy and the history of math. I studied Kant, but now read Ruskin, Whistler, Fry, and others that are suggested or seem fun to read. I note the captions in museum shows I attend and peruse any articles that appear in my favored magazines or newspapers. I occasionally pick up a book at the library or online on this artist, that period or some theory. My interest in art is unformed and seemingly whimsical.
I do, however, care about art. Sometime in my twenties, I discovered that I really enjoy art. I like being able to look at pretty pictures but I also like the experience that perhaps Kant did describe best as the free play of the imagination and understanding. Most of the walls of my humble home may require floor to ceiling book cases but there is always at least one wall that displays the pieces I favor at the moment from my very modest collection of affordable art. I was an artist model for six years and over the many hours of sitting (or standing) in studios listened to all manner of problems various artists encountered in creating art. Mostly I heard them damn the poverty of the art world, including in their monologues: poorly made brushes, the degradation of current art education, and the nihilism that suffuses the ironic tendencies of most modern curators.
I live in one of the art capitols of the world and am regularly insulted by the offerings of this metropolis. After attending the recent Whitney Biennial, I wondered if anyone actually considered what is being displayed. I am not the only person who attends an art museum and questions why I am watching a video made by someone who never studied film. I can't believe that I am the only person who attends a gallery to witness a performance by someone who has never exercised their mind in the history of movement or theater and wonders why. And as someone who studies words and literature, I particularly fail to comprehend why artists think they should present words whose use and history they have never bothered to study and therefore rarely use with the significance possible.
This is not to say that I am incapable of admiring idiot-savant work. I own a piece of outsider art, in fact. I also own other works and one of the worst is a figure drawing (that was given to me) so I am not unconditionally partial to "pretty pictures" or "art you can understand/describe/show my Mormon grandmother." I am not a Luddite but I can suggest that the manufacturing of art has mostly proffered problems. I will declare that it doesn't require an art critic, dealer or curator to tell you what to appreciate, although sometimes they can offer insights that are quite valuable. I can be wrong, misinformed and learn, but I can also argue against inanity.
So this blog is about a young woman- a mere audience member to the art world- who can opine on what she sees (perhaps even reasonably intelligently but certainly for the amusement of her judgment) and, as of today, is rather inclined to do so.
I enjoy doing so now but that was not always the case. As a child, I accompanied my parents and their friends to museums, galleries, festivals and street fairs where they looked at art. I was not encouraged to attend but expected to quietly enjoy whatever I did appreciate, though my opinion was largely irrelevant because I was after all just a child. The mysteries of that adult world mingled with their elusive conversations on art and so I find myself some years later having been lured into this obscure world. I have become one of those adults who attends art events, sometimes out of obligation to my continued edification, but usually out of curiosity.
I have not studied art. When I had the option of taking an art history class in high school, I did not because it interfered with a psychology class that I chose to take instead. Despite assorted attempts to teach me how to draw an egg, my drawing still looks like an oblong. In college, I studied philosophy and the history of math. I studied Kant, but now read Ruskin, Whistler, Fry, and others that are suggested or seem fun to read. I note the captions in museum shows I attend and peruse any articles that appear in my favored magazines or newspapers. I occasionally pick up a book at the library or online on this artist, that period or some theory. My interest in art is unformed and seemingly whimsical.
I do, however, care about art. Sometime in my twenties, I discovered that I really enjoy art. I like being able to look at pretty pictures but I also like the experience that perhaps Kant did describe best as the free play of the imagination and understanding. Most of the walls of my humble home may require floor to ceiling book cases but there is always at least one wall that displays the pieces I favor at the moment from my very modest collection of affordable art. I was an artist model for six years and over the many hours of sitting (or standing) in studios listened to all manner of problems various artists encountered in creating art. Mostly I heard them damn the poverty of the art world, including in their monologues: poorly made brushes, the degradation of current art education, and the nihilism that suffuses the ironic tendencies of most modern curators.
I live in one of the art capitols of the world and am regularly insulted by the offerings of this metropolis. After attending the recent Whitney Biennial, I wondered if anyone actually considered what is being displayed. I am not the only person who attends an art museum and questions why I am watching a video made by someone who never studied film. I can't believe that I am the only person who attends a gallery to witness a performance by someone who has never exercised their mind in the history of movement or theater and wonders why. And as someone who studies words and literature, I particularly fail to comprehend why artists think they should present words whose use and history they have never bothered to study and therefore rarely use with the significance possible.
This is not to say that I am incapable of admiring idiot-savant work. I own a piece of outsider art, in fact. I also own other works and one of the worst is a figure drawing (that was given to me) so I am not unconditionally partial to "pretty pictures" or "art you can understand/describe/show my Mormon grandmother." I am not a Luddite but I can suggest that the manufacturing of art has mostly proffered problems. I will declare that it doesn't require an art critic, dealer or curator to tell you what to appreciate, although sometimes they can offer insights that are quite valuable. I can be wrong, misinformed and learn, but I can also argue against inanity.
So this blog is about a young woman- a mere audience member to the art world- who can opine on what she sees (perhaps even reasonably intelligently but certainly for the amusement of her judgment) and, as of today, is rather inclined to do so.
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