I am sure it’s an understatement to say that these last few months have been hard. We have all been faced with sacrifices and choices we never could have imagined during this pandemic. Personally, I am missing the trails, the absence of people outside, and building memories outside of the house with my little (as well as sleep and adult interaction). But really, we are always building memories. This week we built a fort out of cardboard and a blanket. Two weeks ago we had a camp out in our living room, put up the tent and watched documentaries on national parks while eating s’mores. Stone got his first bike and started riding in the neighborhood, even getting up with no tears after his first crash.
Washington is starting the first phases of “re-opening” while other states have completely opened this week. Or will open today. The scientist in me wants to wait. The adventurer in me wants to get away from everyone that I know will be crowding the state parks this week. So our option is to continue to be home and make memories here. I have plans for the next month while we wait to see if a second wave hits the US which I am prepared for but hope doesn’t happen.
Before all this happened, I had a brief window to take Stone to the Seattle Art Museum for the “Flesh and Blood” exhibition featuring Italian masterpieces. It was the last day for viewing. I only wanted to go for one painting, Judith and Holofernes by Artemisia Gentileschi. For those who aren’t big into art history (and why would you be in normal everyday life) Judith and Holofernes is the moment that Judith beheads the Assyrian general that had beseiged her city. She got dolled up. She went to his tent. He got drunk, too drunk really. And she cut off his head. It was a popular Biblical story for Renaissance and Baroque artists along with David and Goliath. But as commanding as Michelangelo’s David is (and it IS commanding), I will always root for a woman that uses her looks and her wit to defeat an enemy.
Gentileschi also shows male artists what’s up with her own command of the elements and principles of art. I won’t get too involved with boring details but the realism, the visible struggle in their muscle tension, the accuracy of blood splatter, and the lighting (chiaroscuro for you art buffs) make for an impressive painting.
We entered the museum after a mellow drive north on I-5 and dealing with an asshole in the parking garage. Seattle folks are in a whole other class to me. We made it with enough time to check our coats and my bag and made our way to the gallery. Due to the value of the paintings, only so many patrons were allowed into the gallery space at a time. It was still too many. Not as bad as I imagine the Lourve would be but definitely standing room only unless you wanted to look at paintings that people didn’t care for.
We weaved through the pools of people, Stone holding on tightly to me as I carried him. He stated that the paintings were “scary” which is pretty fair. A lot of the bodies were pale, eyes rolled back like they were looking to God but in reality they looked dead. And how do you explain to a three year old why baby Jesus looks like a small, bald man? We spent less time than most in that space, overwhelmed by the people and the heat of both gallery lighting and crowds. Not to mention my horrible habit of talking under my breath about people. I don’t do it with friends but when I’m alone in groups….. I’m the worst.
We wandered through the different gallery spaces. There were massive photography prints of Nirvana, pure punk rock. I won’t get to into music history either. The obvious is that we were in Seattle, and we were looking at early Nirvana. While not my favorite band, the photos were cool and reminded me of my own teenage moments hanging out in punk houses where I shouldn’t have been. We used to call it “the corner of assault and battery” cause the street name was Battery and you were sure to be assaulted by someone. It’s funny to think that one of these days, Stone will get to learn about these stories about his mom. Will he roll his eyes? Or think mom was the coolest? The stupidest? There is an argument for both I’m sure.
I still hold that witnessing a human experience things for the first time is so magical. The first time in water. The first foods. The first time singing. I tried to give Stone room to roam, no doubt the toughest thing about toddler life right now. I constantly reminded him to look with his eyes, no hands. And he already knew to tell me what he was seeing – a giant mouse, faces, colors, shapes. He asked about African masks, talked about Black Panther, and watched videos of traditional dances. He knew to interact with the Asian art installation. He danced around in the projected images and watched a cohesive, sensory presentation. He may not have known why. Or who created them. But he sure was taking it all in in his own way.
Once we got away from the “scary” art of the Renaissance and Baroque period, Stone relaxed. He was far more interested in the non-western art, the contemporary art, and the aboriginal art. I feel like this area is my home. I studied art history as well as fine art in college, with a major focus on Precolumbian Mesoamerican art. That’s a mouthful….
I took as many classes as I could about the Olmec, Aztec, Mayan. I studied their bloodletting rituals, the ball game, the codex, the mythology, the archaeological sites. I remember watching Mel Gibson’s Apocalyto in 2006 for the visuals and the language and the newly discovered idea that the Mayan weren’t peaceful and gentle. Go look up the murals at Bonampak for an idea. My art history professor was also a mover and doer. She would go to Mexico for research projects, studying phallic objects in the jungle to determine their significance to a universal view. Who would have thought that could be a job? “I’m gonna go look at these penises in the jungle! See you in a month!” She also invited me to take a deeper look at how western civilization had decimated the Americas. The arrival of Hernando Cortes, the “conquest” of the highly organized and intelligently designed Aztec city of Tenochtitlan, and the subsequent violence justified by religion. Her classes were my first taste of questioning colonialism. She even invited Mexican novelist and diplomat Carlos Fuentes to speak for a lecture. He told a story about witnessing Frida Kahlo enter a theater in all her colorful glory. Mind you, I was already hooked from reading his book The Buried Mirror: Reflections on Spain and the New World. We spoke briefly about art and history and relations between the US and Mexico. Not nearly as in depth as needed. Before he left, he signed my copy of Frida’s journal.
We stayed at the museum for maybe two hours. I think it’s important to set time limits on things that can either seem like sensory overload or turn into monotony. Some items Stone really enjoyed – stylized art and anything that was large and colorful. Add lights and you really had a winner. The smaller, everyday items of history didn’t have as much appeal. Even though the simpler Chinese art is part of his heritage, he’s not there yet. Even I still struggle with the half of me that I know little about, the half that I am learning to embrace as an American. Shit is weird and so difficult to explain. But I know the beauty in simple design, in balance, in symmetry, in intricacy which Asian art embodies so well. We hurried through the collection and moved on to the next.
Stone absolutely loved the work of Dorothy Napangardi, a contemporary Aboriginal artist born in the Tanami Desert of Australia. Patterns and colors, like the stars in the night sky or the light sparkling off a lake or an aerial microscopic maze. He stood gazing at massive canvases and for one of many times, I wondered what he wondered.
We continued our stroll through the contemporary art and stumbled upon Aaron Fowler’s exhibit Into Existence. Fowler’s work is painting, culture, and installation simultaneously. Fowler creates these full experiences that really need to be seen in person to be appreciated for what they are. African history, religious iconography, Black culture, and personal narratives combine to form these floor to ceiling stages. Stone ran back and forth, following a neon light that spiraled to a corner in the gallery. He saw himself reflected in the fragments of mirrored glass (genius) and tried to decipher what materials had made up each installation – cardboard, gates, fabric, cotton balls, hair weaves, car parts, ropes, foam, computer parts, ironing boards, and lights. All these items are combined to create this real life and larger than life existence. Speaking it into existence. Or creating it into existence I suppose.
In reality, I had tried to go to the Seattle Art Museum alone. I wasn’t completely confident that a three year old had a place in “fine art” appreciation. And I also had gone to rekindle a spark that I felt had diminished, or at least been steered far off course from where I wanted it to be. As an artist, I feel like so much of our lives fuels our art. Sometimes you create genius based on your surroundings and background. Sometimes your surroundings steer you against your true purpose and mission. That had happened to me while operating a creative business. An opportunity presented itself in the midst of crocheting and painting denim jackets. I was asked to do a mural for family court as part of a face lift/social awareness campaign, something I felt called to do instead of trying to convince people that two hours or more of painting on vintage denim is worth $30.
Life kinda hands you strange and wonderful paths when you are open to them. I met with the judges, created a proposal, and was asked to bring my vision to fruition. Then the pandemic hit. So for now we are waiting… and resting… and reflecting… and in some ways rebuilding who we are and who we want to be.
