Museums possess a unique method of eye level learning. When else do you walk & stand in great halls with floors of cold concrete or creaky wood? When else are your feet connected to art in this way? I remember how at art museums I exchange with portraits handshakes and nods of recognition.
Museums are a particular form of extraversion. An exercise of the mind they show stories and teach knee-strength.
Sometimes when I pass a famous piece, or a not famous one, I see camera trapped crowds huddled and I wonder what they see. Likewise as I carouse through a gallery I meet impressions, pastiches of heart leaps, laughter, hidden laconic music, bucolic comedy.
As I walk towards a Danish chair at a white table I hear a man muse about the organic etchings on a silver mid-century modern vase. He says, “beautiful” with tote bag in hand. On the wall left of my seat a slideshow of Danish silverware moves by accompanied by iconic big-band jazz. My train leaves in an hour. Content & at home in this museum corner I sit, processing reality as it is. Doubts & debts loom, yet I feel comfortable as I approach the ensuing chaos.
For inspiration I walk public places like these, rife with symbols, symbolic complexes, and their jazz like clamor. I rush in aware that in authentic passion I might hope to see truth through falsehood and figures of foolish worship. What but enraged confused communion connects me to divinity sitting by my side at this white table in a Danish silverware exhibition.
Copper pots and ceramic bowls, wicker chairs, comedic goals.