So, a selection of the Modern Masters from MoMA is currently being shown at AGWA, which is where I spent most of my time today.
Picasso, Pollock, Matisse, Duchamp, Bourgeois, Warhol and many others… I…
I was trasnfixed by Picasso’s Painter and Model within seconds. It’s one thing to see it in a textbook. It’s a whole other thing to see it in person. The energy in the brush strokes, the specific colours, the incredible….. completeness of it.
I stood in front of There Were Seven in Eight by Jackson Pollock and tried not to cry.
It’s like his interpretation of Picasso’s Guernica. Just look at it for a while. Just… Look. I don’t care if you think it’s a mess. I don’t care if you don’t think it’s art. If you need to, google Guernica. Google Picasso, and then google Pollock. Pay attention to dates.
See, while I was walking through that exhibition today, I could follow the progression of inspiration. Who inspired who, what inspired what. I could see the artists who worked against each other, who came first, who came later…
I spend a lot of time thinking that I don’t actually like art. I’ve grown up in a family in which art goes back generations. Dad is an artist. My grandparents are artists. My great-grandparents were writers and artists. It goes back as far as I can trace. Art, words, and sex. I follow the trend.
Standing there in front of these paintings, I was reminded how much I do actually love art. I love art. It’s not that I don’t care about it. I know it. I’ve been raised in it.
You don’t realise how much you need air until you can’t breathe.
You don’t realise how polluted the city air is until you’re in the country.
Picasso and Pollock were my breaths of fresh air today. I wanted to cry. I stood, with aching feet (I ripped off a toenail lastnight, which hurts like a bitch) and in a massive crowd of rude, irritating people, just to stare in wonder at these works. I must have stood there, in front of There Were Seven in Eight for an hour or more. I could hear the people around me discussing Pollock’s work with disappointment.
I forget sometimes that they don’t understand why his work is so wonderful.
I don’t hold it against them. Art to one person is shit to another.
I wonder how many of them were just there to see a name?
I got a good laugh out of Duchamp’s L.H.O.O.Q (which when said out loud, turns out to be “She has a great arse” in french)
And laughed even more with Dad when we found another version of that: L.H.O.O.Q (Shaved) which was just a playing card of Mona Lisa on paper.
I was disappointed not to see any Basquiat there, but oh well. I’m still buzzed from Picasso and Pollock. Can you tell they were my favourites?
After that there was coffee in a cute little coffee shop down the walkway from the gallery, where we sat and listened to a one-legged saxophonist play classic romantic songs, and songs about beautiful days. He helped a woman propose (or announce an engagement?) on video by playing the wedding music while she gestured and talked excitedly at a camera.
You know, I don’t need action and excitement to have a wonderful day. Plonk me in a place where there’s art and music and I’ll be happy.
Good day, all in all. Gooooood day.