A Statement, of Sorts...

The Conversation of Art - 

I had my first conscious museum experience (at the MFA in Houston) relatively late in life, at about age 23.  As I walked through, delighting in the color, images and shifting time, I saw everything but heard nothing; it was a purely visual experience.  I can’t explain why, but something inside compelled me to repeat this exercise; to tramp through dozens of other museums during the years that followed.  In the silence, my eyes took it all in.

Gradually, I could recognize a few of the artists by just the look of their paintings.  “Oh, hello, I know you,” I would think to myself as I crossed the room, beaming as if recognizing an old friend.  “So this is what you were up to since we last met - I see what you were thinking about!”  

I was starting to hear some whispers. 

Visits to libraries and bookstores turned up the volume.  Combing through reference books, I found the stories.  I was shocked by Frida’s terrible accident, and understood Vincent’s lonely wandering.  I wept when I read about Henri’s defiance of his deformity, and was impressed by Andy’s calculated preemptive strike.

When my children arrived, I took them along, and engaged them with what I had learned.  “See that painting, with all of the blue in it?  Pablo was sad because his friend had just died when he made it,” I would say.

And the paintings began talking back.

“You’re damn right I was sad then,” I could have sworn I heard the work reply.  “But look, there - at that hint of rose - and the eyes, which look like masks; can you tell that I am starting to think differently, Catherine?” My chin would bob with understanding.

And while this conversation was going on, tiny drips of art started leaking out of me.  Painting a flat for a school play, doodling in the margins of my life, or making ridiculously complex Halloween costumes, my own creative juices began to flow.

Squeezing out some time, I took drawing, painting and design classes, and thought a lot about art, searching for a way, for permission really, to join in the conversation.  

Then, at 51, with only rudimentary art or computer skills, I made the decision to publicly commit myself to learn to paint, by making 52 paintings in a year and posting them on a blog.  Vincent van Gogh and I spent a year together, and he taught me to see and think like an artist.  He told me his story, and I told him mine (http://vincentprojectblog.com).  He told me to make art, even if no one believed in it or me.

Although I would have described myself as a very private “shame-driven” type of person, I dove in without any clue about how to do even simple tasks, like taking a screen shot.  (And, so you know, I have not changed or cleaned up a word of the Vincent Project blog since I initially published it.) I suffered the humiliation of my (now adult) tech-savvy kids rolling their eyes (in their own embarrassment) at how little I knew about using a computer.

Without much culling or careful curation of my images, I taught myself to blog, and published paintings in every stage of development, including ones that were truly awful.  I got almost no feedback (except halting “Oh, that’s interesting…” conversational dismissals) until I was well more than halfway through the project.  

Unexpectedly, I sold my house, had a major estate sale, remodeled a loft apartment and moved in the middle of that year; during that upheaval, I painted and (admittedly, later than I wanted to) published.  I continued to announce every new posting on social media and provided links, and I pursued every glimmer of interest with friends, strangers, stalkers and some who I believe must be in the Russian mob.  

I completed 52 paintings within 52 weeks, and wrote about them all.  Then I did the bravest thing of all.  I kept on painting, even though it would have been so easy to embrace the hobby and just paint on Sundays.  

There were more courses, this time in Art History. 

I was finding that he more I understood the language, the more cacophonous the museums became.  As I passed from gallery to gallery, I could hear the artists hailing one another, teasing one another, paying tribute to those who had come before. I started to catch on to the amusing inside jokes (that I felt) they had inserted for my enjoyment.  I saw images repeated and reinterpreted over and over - Millet to van Gogh, Goya to Manet, Kahlo to Morimura; I was beginning to understand a lot of what they were saying, and even some of what had been left unsaid.

In the studio space I had carved out for myself, I started hearing the soft cadence of my own voice tentatively joining the chorus.  Jackson guided my drips, until Lee told him to shut the hell up and let me do it.  Henri’s hands folded over my own in the scissors, until the confidence of my cuts allowed him to let me go. Through my own practice, I found myself simultaneously looking backward, forward and standing in place; I was leaving behind the mark of my  own life through the objects I had made.

I think about and make art each and every day simply because I am seeking greater fluency in the subject.  I want to practice speaking until I can conjugate the verbs, perfect the tenses, and converse like a native.

The art which has leaked out of me all of my life is now a steady flow, and I will never allow that faucet to be turned off, by anyone or anything.  I want to grow as an artist, both technically, and with a more refined communication of my thoughts, ideas and responses.  I want to expand the dialogue I am engaged in via actual, interactive conversation and collaboration with other artists.  I hope that my art will continue to be recognized and collected.

Ultimately, I want to continue in the ongoing and timeless conversation.  I want my art to whisper or shout as it tells my own story.  I want someone in the next century to joyfully cross a gallery just to say - “Oh, hello, I know you.”

Art cannot be appreciated on an empty stomach...

- The secret to getting a man through a 

museum is to (occasionally)

 let him get off of his feet -

Last week’s Museum waltz across Texas provided two opportunities for fine art lunches - at the Café Modern in Fort Worth, and at the newly opened Bistro Menil in the sticky, humid heart of Houston.  

Elegant yet expensively and purposefully austere, the Café Modern invites diners into a large, open room featuring a spectacular view of the museum’s Conjoined (Roxy Paine, 2007), two stainless steel trees locked in a permanent windblown dance.  A sinuous wall of floor to ceiling windows frames a cool, restful grotto which overlooks a shallow man made lake, enveloping the building in a shimmery embrace.  This reflective water beautifully cordons off the mainly monetary area of the museum, but still allows for tantalizing glimpses across the pond into the similarly windowed exhibit space beyond.  

Motifs of modernity are repeated uniformly throughout the space: gray clad Saarinen chairs gather around slick tables. Polished chrome gleams.  Featured on each tableau were all of the things that make some Texas diners more than a little nervous:  bread plates and un-patted butter, cryptic, featureless condiment shakers, and small clear vessels  which make precious strange, weed-like flowers.  Of course, the  silverware too impossibly modern to use with grace, so conversation in the room was often punctuated by the clatter of dropped cutlery, followed in turn by a softly muttered “dang!”

I am an omnivoric member of clean plate club, but my dining companions included an economic vegetarian and a gluten intolerant pescetarian.  After a full morning of travel, and with a planned afternoon at the Kimbell ahead of us, no one in our party was in the mood for a large heavy lunch.  The vegetarian went with the Kung Pao Cauliflower ($13.50), the fish lover selected a bowl of the Carrot, Coconut and Cardamom Soup ($7.50 - made without gluten), and I chose the Super Foods Salad ($13.75).  Our irritated server (we had been seated close to the end of the lunch shift) took our order with an annoyed sigh, and then abandoned us to empty our iced tea glasses without supervision.

Finally making a reappearance with our lunch, Ms. Café Modern veritably rolled her eyes in irritation with us that we dared to have only ice cubes left in our glasses.  Wiping her hand on a slightly crusty apron, she got the plates (with only a few more slightly controlled sighs) on the table.  Everything (salad, entree, soup) was presented at a completely uniform temperature - I guess I can say that the kitchen was consistent.  

The over cardomomed soup had the mouth feel of pureed baby food, but at least it wasn’t so hot that you had to be careful with each spoonful.  The always voracious economic vegetarian fared better with the Kung Pao Cauliflower - a minimal serving of tofu, cauliflower and sticky rice, his meal was swiftly devoured and pronounced “good enough.”  My Super Foods Salad, featuring Quinoa, Greens, Broccoli, Peas, Avocado and greek yogurt, started well, but then became weirdly too much of a melange of too many different flavors.  I received demerits from the clean plate club until my gluten free (and still starving after his baby food meal) companion finished the dish, sans the toasted pita bread garnish.  I am certain he liked it better than I did.  Not wanting to keep our server from whatever important thing it was that she was doing any longer, we declined dessert.

Because we were left alone (by our server) for so much of the time while we were at the Café Modern, we had plenty of chances to look around and observe the room.  Happily, this provided the opportunity to steal glances at another, far less ignored patron - an exquisitely dressed urban gentleman cowboy dining on his own.  Outfitted with his well conformed jeans tucked unironically into high shaft custom cowboy boots, and sporting a snappy vest with jacket and perfect, brassy wire rimmed glasses, our own Sam Shepard appeared to be using his smartphone, laptop and Texas charm to broker the sale of a herd of cattle, or perhaps, with oil now boring him, he was arranging to have more wind turbines installed on his ranch plateau near Marfa.

The Modern is a great place to go, just don’t show up late during a shift or very hungry.  The food is less Café than cafeteria, but all is forgiven (as is always the case in a great museum) when you see the views - both inside and out.

Just a week later, with the vegetarian back in Boston, the pescetarian and I stepped out of the Menil Collection (looking for another end of shift lunch) and walked across the street to the charming new Bistro Menil.  The exterior has been styled to blend with the other little grey houses lining the streets around the museum, and this newly built space featured large windows and a welcoming wooden porch, all nestled into a thoughtfully preserved and shaded lot.   

A telephone tied woman locked vision with us as soon as we walked through the door; she then silently mesmerized a passing waiter, demanding with flashes of her deep brown eyes that he drop what he was doing and show us to a table.   Although we never heard a whispered “I hear, and I obey…” it was very apparent who signed his weekly checks.  Our compliant waiter showed us quickly to his own section and a table with a lively view of the space in between the restaurant and the adjacent museum bookstore.  My partner enjoyed a plush bench seat from where he was perfectly positioned to observe the interior of the restaurant in all of its tasteful, well curated modern (but with warm wood, so it’s not so cold!) glory.

Unlike our recent shunning by server in Fort Worth, this fellow quickly waited as fast as he could, signaling busboys for drinks and reeling off specials with a shocking amount of…engagement.  He gave us a few moments to discuss, then swiftly returned to take our order for a Pizza with fresh Mozzarella and Tomato ($12.00) and a Menil Salad ($8.00) with salmon ($6.00) and vinaigrette.  A bread plate then appeared and we were left with a few moments to discuss our mutual confusion over our encounter with Cy Twombly.  

Before our lunch arrived, a lull in our own conversation led to an overheard snippet from the two men seated next to us - they were apparently both classical musicians and old chums meeting for a quick bite while in town for separate gigs.  We knew we were definitely in a museum restaurant when we heard words like “harpsichord,” “clavicle,” and “Stravinsky,” as they reveled in the pleasure (with no thought of calories or grams of anything) of lustily enjoying large and separate desserts.  The pescatarian, who is also a musician, was happy to indulge (albeit vicariously) in his own favorite fine art.  

Things only got better when the food arrived.  A light, yet crispy crust complimented a salty mozzarella on my partner’s pizza.  Although it was of a size that could have been shared, I barely got a whiff of the delicious steam off of his plate before only the crumbs remained.  My salad, like all of the salads eaten by ladies who lunch, was perfectly fine; tasty (enough) and good for me.  The cooked to order salmon was perfectly sized  and grilled to perfection.  The rustic table bread rounded the meal to a satisfactory conclusion.

Until our server brought the dessert menu to our attention.  

The Chocolate Pot de Creme and Warm Chocolate Mousse Cake our neighbors had enjoyed earlier typically offer no temptation to me, but I was easily snared and hung by my thumbs and begging for mercy when I read the words “Lemon Curd Tart ($10.00).”  The brief preview we had gotten (of our neighbors very nearly licked clean plates) allowed me to trust, and I was glad that I did.  

Almost as quickly as we were able to order, our still enthusiastic waiter delivered a small and very tart tart, with a flaky, croissant like crust.  Relaxing in the enjoyment of our lemony afterglow, finishing our perfectly foamy cappuccinos and seated comfortably in the cool drift of the air conditioning, we were able to forget, for at least another moment, about the shimmering heat beyond the window.