Standing under a giant wooden plug in the middle of the Tate Modern, I could hear the three women who had been a few steps behind me for the last three galleries start up again.
"What is
that supposed to mean?"
"I don't get it."
The third just sort of snorted.
Frustrated with their loud banter, their judgmental attitudes, and the fact that I felt like they were breathing down my neck, I passive-aggressively sighed and gave a sideways glance. What I thought to be a well-timed social cue flew under their radar as they shifted their attention to a Jackson Pollock painting wondering what the big deal was.
In that moment, I felt torn. I'm not into art. I know nothing about art. The hardest assignment I had last year was to write about a collection of abstracts at a gallery at MIT. If this is true, then how was it that I was defending (even if only internally) the strange sculptures and paintings around me from criticism? Since when did I care about art?
When I arrived at the Tate Modern, I figured I could spend an hour tops wandering from room to room pretending to care. I would sigh meaningfully and pause at larger canvasses, maybe grabbing a seat in front of something that looked important. But, not until I had my cappuccino and looked at the map to form my plan of attack. Then I saw the words "Pop Art." That I knew I would enjoy. Comic books made giant? Yes, please.
I made my way to the Pop Art gallery planning on lingering there and then strolling along what was sure to be a series of contrived pieces. Larger than life, Lichenstein's work stood in front of me. My every sinew wanted to reach out and caress the painting, but I knew not to. I had been trained well in my teenage years. Excited, I wanted to see what else was around.
As I entered a larger gallery filled with paintings by Picasso and Monet (which I am very pleased to say I saw in person!!), a young girl in front of me snapped a picture. Scandalized, I looked around for someone. Then I realized half of the people in the room were snapping photos.
In our age of hyper-technology I guess there really isn't a way to stop them, I thought.
I noticed an older, female docent looking at the girls. She stood as if ready to pounce, clearly filled with rage. She stopped the young girl and exchanged words in a hushed tone. I passed through the gallery and into the next, having paused at every piece and read every placard.
In the next room, sculptures, which I must say I still do not have a taste for, appeared throughout the space while paintings and etchings hung on the walls. I lingered at the paintings allowing the echoes in the room to fill the background creating soft white noise. Suddenly, the same docent appeared like a ninja to tell a mother to control her child who, I might add, was just then balancing herself against a pedestal on top of which perched a rather delicate looking sculpture.
Some part of me wanted to tell the docent to breathe. I wanted to explain that she couldn't possibly appear in every room and control every patron of the museum. But, I'm glad I didn't. At that moment, I could overhear her telling another coworker, "I mean, the nerve. Over here a girl is just snapping photos of every piece. Not even looking. And then the toddler." She grunted in frustration.
I walked away quickly, drawn to the Poetry and Dream exhibit. As soon as I passed the threshold, I knew this was were I was supposed to be. Surrealists surrounded me at that moment and I was ecstatic. I looked at my watch. I had already passed two hours in the museum without having noticed. A little perturbed that this meant my time was waning, I pressed on. Room after room filled with paintings, drawings, photographs, collages, and just about anything you could think of delighted me. I was actually and thoroughly enjoying myself.
Then there was the "Dark Humour" room in the exhibit. My own little heaven. At one point, observing the wall of David Shrigley contributions, I was laughing so hard I disturbed the guy next to me. I tried to walk away but came back just to read the placard again. I turned to find that same docent in the room. Surprised that she had moved to where I was so quickly I wondered if she were following me. Had I touched anything? Did I laugh too loud? Did I stand out in some way?
I, ever so coolly, sauntered out of the room and took a hard right.
Follow me now, Ninja, I thought. I turned to find a giant pile of sunflower seeds. An exhibit by Ai Weiwei. I felt a little disappointed at that fact that this is what all the hype had been about. The person I most felt I
had to see while at the Tate Modern was one of those stereotypical modern artists. Feeling obliged, I read the placard. Each seed was actually made of porcelain from the town where Weiwei was born. According to the sign each represented the export, the multitude of Chinese people, and the questioning of how China is imagined abroad. Looking at the pile of porcelain made to look like simple sunflower seeds, I simply felt sad. I was sad that I had snapped to such a quick judgment. I was sad that such an artist was being persecuted by his country for his "dissidence." I was sad simply because it seemed that the seeds demand I be so.
All this meandering and imaginary cat and mouse with the docent (who really had no interest in me) led me to the giant wooden plug hanging from the ceiling. And the peanut gallery. With their worn out appraisal of modern art: "My kid could do better than that."
Well good for you. Sell your kid's art and make a million dollars so you never have to come here again.
In all honesty, I was most frustrated with the women because I didn't "get it" either. I mean, I wanted to get it. I wanted to turn around and say, "Listen lady. This is commentary upon our dependency on technology and how in reality we are still more invested in wood than electricity." I could have, but I didn't know if that was true. And, I didn't believe it to be true.
That's when it hit me. Maybe the docent, the toddler, the young girl snapping pictures, the inattentive mother, and even the judgmental three were all doing what they were supposed to. Maybe I was the one off base. Perhaps instead of struggling to find meaning and somehow own the art through the grasping of it's inner meaning I should just let it wash over me. Let it confuse me. Allow it to seem meaningless.
As I stood under the giant plug with my revelation, I noticed a cobweb between the two blades, gently waving in the wind. That wasn't planned. That couldn't have "meaning."
Maybe that was it. No big lesson. No grand meaning. No further understanding as to why I was so enthralled by modern art. No explanation for how three and a half hours seemed too short. Just a cobweb and a giant wooden plug. Simple enough.
The chaos of the scene at the Tate Modern and my reaction to it seem like something Gerard Richter would have loved:
I don't know what I want; I am inconsistent, non-committal, passive; I like the indefinite, the boundless; I like continual uncertainty.
If that's the point of modern art, then, yeah, I like it.
