Art and Science (Olympiad)
In her 2017 appearance on Krista Tippet’s On Being, the artist and writer Maira Kalman described how going to the grocery store can feel like going to a museum. Everywhere you look, there’s something to delight or challenge the senses, an opportunity to observe and consider, to accept or reject. That’s not a direct quote from Kalman; her observation struck me so totally that I have considered it again and again ever since, remixing the sentiment into my own little philosophy of art appreciation in daily life.
As with so many stray observations, this year of sensory deprivation has magnified its meaning. To my mind, no online shop or virtual gallery can offer that feeling Kalman described, the feeling of, I am here to observe and consider, I’m going to take in what’s being presented to me and with any luck, make meaning of it all. How often have I wished, this past year, that just one retailer would have the consideration to create some kind of virtual aisles I could wander through. Instead, I’m forced to type “maxi dress” or “wheat germ” into the search bar and see what’s returned. When I have gone out into the retail wilds, it’s usually very prescribed, with no room for meandering or inspiration; my bi-weekly grocery trips, for example, have been carefully planned, lists mapped out for minimum time spent indoors. And, of course, there have been no LITERAL museums. None at all.
This is the baggage I brought with me this weekend to an honest-to-god art gallery (!). Always a treat, the opportunity had now been granted a kind of pilgrimage status. I was visiting my father for the Easter holiday, and we wandered — mostly together, but each on our our own little observer’s island — past painted silk mobiles and acrylic-on-concrete orbs, past dripping miniature watercolors and architectural swirls of stacked wood. Everything was for sale, but lookie-loos were warmly encouraged (thank god). But we were alone in the gallery save for the proprietor. The only sound was a faint oldies soundtrack and the vrooming of a Roomba hard at work in the central chamber. We sped through that room, lest our ankles get bonked in its tireless pursuit of carpet dust.
We were almost back around to the front when the proprietor broke the silence with a baritone, “How you folks doin’?” Perhaps he was bored; he joked about needing to make some noise. “Everyone always feels like they have to be quiet in here.”
Having thus engaged us in conversation, he told us a story of a young couple, “very much in love,” who had recently visited. The pair had been having some kind of giggly conversation as they walked through the place, and when they were about to leave, he asked what they’d been talking about. They’d been playing a game, they told him. One of them would close their eyes, and the other would lead them to a piece of art. The still-sighted person then described to the temporarily blind party the artwork before them both. The eyes were opened. How did the real artwork compare to the piece in the mind’s eye?
I’ll be honest: my first thought on hearing this story was that, were I the owner of a gallery full of valuable sculpture, I would NOT want people with their eyes closed wandering through it, led by an unskilled guide. Putting that concern aside, this little game sounded very pure, sweetly nerdy, and (though perhaps this was all the proprietor’s spin) quite romantic.
It also reminded me of Science Olympiad.
I believe it was 8th grade when my friend Alex and I won 5th place at the Indiana State Science Olympiad. 5th place comes with a medal with the state of Indiana embossed on it, hanging from a thick green ribbon. Our event was called, descriptively, “Write It, Do It.” For the purposes of the event, I was the Writer; Alex was the Doer.
It worked like this: the writers from each school’s team were presented with an abstract construction built out of Tinker Toys. Emphasis on “abstract;” if the structure could be easily described as a Sears Tower or an A-frame house, it would have been beside the point of the challenge. The Writer, pencil in hand, had a limited time to scribe step by step instructions on how to recreate the structure. When complete, the instructions were handed in at the proctor’s desk like a final exam. The Writer’s job was done. Now, the Doer had to re-sculpt the Tinker Toy creation using only these written instructions. Points were awarded based on some algorithm of speed and accuracy in the finished product.
Just like the Describer in the gallery, I never knew just how clearly my message had been understood. Unless memory fails me, we Writers never saw our Doers’ final creations; we found out how well we did when our scores were announced. Alex and I would try and explain to each other what we had each seen and done. Back in the art gallery, when the girlfriend’s eyes were uncovered, there must have been a moment of astonishment tinged with discomfort: How, now, to describe what I THOUGHT you meant, the image that I held in my head? And even if I did describe it, how could I be sure that what I’ve described is what my partner is picturing?
This, I think, is part of the magic of art appreciation: the ephemeral dance between the messenger, the message, and how the message is received. And sure, we absolutely do this when we read, or listen to music, or have a conversation (especially over text). But it’s only when you enter that museum state of mind, whether you’re finding it in an actual art gallery or in, say, a grocery store, that you’re doing the dance on purpose.
I have missed this dance a lot. My brain needed it. I’m excited to dance again.
— Marissa
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