I went to the art museum to view the Monet exhibit this Sunday. After descending two flights of stairs and finally squeezing past the gargantuan squadron of police officers, I found myself in the middle of several rooms with a museum employee hissing in my ear to make sure I stay behind the little white lines.
Hissing cockroaches. I should have brought a can of Raid.
After two meanderings through the gallery I determined that I both hate and love Monet. But, we'll get back to that later.
First and foremost, beyond any realm of doubt, I determined that I hated everyone that shared those rooms with me. There were three types of people that congregated the museum last night: the Art Aficionados, the faux alternative kids in their factory ripped and stained jeans, and me.
The Art Aficionados earned my contempt within the first five minutes. The men wore either twead jackets or polyester pull-over vests with absurd patterns that only the legally blind could appreciate. The women had hair so perfectly coiffed that I expect had I thrown something at it, the object in question would have ricocheted off the hair at a speed closer to light than man had (until that moment) yet achieved. The cracks in the oil paintings came, not from age as one might have expected, but surely from the copious amounts of perfume comingling in the air like the mushroom cloud forming over the explosion site of a nuclear bomb.
The women twittered and flittered about like overweight humming birds while their menfolk (how quaint) stood back on their heels, hands cupping their graying and close cropped beards while "hrmm"-ing to themselves in consternation.
I always find that I understand and appreciate paintings better when I "hrmmm".
Aw, but Monet. When I first viewed the paintings I was appalled. This man is a genius? Surely not! The second viewing caused me to slow down. I saw things I hadn't seen before. The third viewing of his work was the ensnared trap. This man was like crack cocaine. It's free the first time, but damned if it will be for the next.
I tried, I admit, to enjoy the water lilly paintings. Honest, I did. However, they seemed flat and nonsensical to me. Ah, but the snowstorm in Giverny was the painting that grabbed me. I felt almost as though I could step into the canvas, back in time and even feel the paint strokes across my back.
Still, it was with a deep sigh of relief that I escaped the Aficionados and the female Hair Spray Brigade that accompanied them. The reek of monopoly money is very bad for the sinuses and digestion.
