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Artistry & Bad Brakes 7/19/2010 8:42:40 AM
The weather gods smiled upon our vacation while whatever beings that control automotive function were asleep at the switch. As opposed to this week in our nation’s capital, we had cooler than normal temps and a breeze. But as we entered that munificent city of white, marred only by the grisly grind of politics there was a second grind coming directly from our vehicle. Before I spend this entire blog berating Hyundai, the repair was made during the beach portion of our vacation. Except for the obvious annoyance, it really didn’t affect me. My husband was the one stuck with the friendly, albeit toothless, Meineke man for an entire day. Oh, don’t feel too bad for Matt; it was day four with me and he was whistling a tune as he went.
What did affect me on this trip, and oddly all of us, was an unexpected brush with artistry. Having been to Washington D.C. a couple of years ago this was to be a quick visit. The National Museum of American History was under renovation last time and my son felt “rushed” during his first visit to the National Air and Space Museum. Normally I would not go four hundred miles out of my way to accommodate the wants of a thirteen year old. But it’s so rare for him to profess an interest in anything besides skateboards and dirt that I was motivated. He got his fill of both, touring the museums until our feet atrophied and my wallet winced at paying $77 for lunch in the American History Museum’s basement cafeteria.
We meter parked on the last day, expecting to spend only the morning in D.C. As we were getting into the car, ready for phase two of our vacation, I noticed that we were directly across from the National Gallery of Art. If you’re not overly familiar with Washington museums you should know that admission is free. (It’s the lunch they get you on) I looked over my entourage as my daughter read my mind, shaking her head. My son stood clueless on the curb, eyeing a nearby hotdog vendor. I shrugged at Matt. “Who knows when we’ll back this way again,” I said, pointing to the block long building.
He looked, struggling hard for the enthusiasm he summons when I drag this diehard Yankees fan to Fenway Park. “Yeah, we should probably go in. It’s like paintings and stuff, right?”
“Famous paintings,” I qualified, as if I knew what I was talking about. “A lot of the Masters, sculpture too.” This snippet of conversation alarmed my son who looked at me as if I just announced that congress passed a law banning hotdogs in D.C. “Come on,” I said. “Let’s give it a try. What’s the worst that can happen? We spend ten minutes inside and decide it’s not for us.” Since everyone was trying hard not to be labeled the pain in the ass on this trip, they agreed. We dropped three more quarters into the meter, which bought us an hour.
“That’s a waste of fifty cents,” noted my daughter as we headed inside.
Unlike the Smithsonian buildings, the National Gallery of Art has a true museum aura to it. Marble clad and airy, quieter, you feel immediately underdressed in your shorts and sneakers. But don’t let that stop you. Much to our uneducated chagrin, we were fascinated. We were also smart enough to stop at the front desk and speak with the concierge about this 16,000 square foot mammoth collection of art. I pointed to the four of us, managing to indicate by gesture alone that we were more or less foreign visitors, didn’t speak the language, and had not a clue between Kinkade mall art and a Degas. She graciously obliged, directing us to the highlights.
We perused the big ticket items, viewed the tip of the iceberg: Monet, Renoir, Picasso, and Van Gogh. We even strolled through American Modernism with curious interest. I was impressed that my kids were impressed. Or perhaps I was just relieved that they could appreciate something that didn’t plug in. Aside from the obvious talent, here’s what I saw: In looking at the larger paintings, most by artists I did not know, I found myself absorbed in the artistry on a storyline level. Blank canvases and blank pages have everything in common. You start with nothing. Well, nothing tangible, an idea, an inspiration, a hope that it doesn’t end up as kindling. This is probably something else 17th century and New England artists have in common. In the end, to have someone appreciate your work as an artist—painter, songwriter, novelist—and how you went about filling that blank space is a thrill. In the right light, I believe it’s an equal thrill whether you are the artist or the person taking it in. The give and take of art, I suppose. So add the National Gallery of Art to your must-see list of places in Washington D.C. It’s worth all three quarters, plus the meter maid’s ticket upon your exit, several hours later.
