Tonight I met up with some out-of-towners (a friend and friends of friend) at the MoMA, which was really fun, but rather baffling. I guess I don't understand people that don't really get excited about art. Walking around at the Museum of Modern Art, you come across iconic paintings and sculptures that are fantastic artistic creations--many of them products of genius. Even if you don't know the process by which it was created, gazing at a Mondrian for example, you might still feel a thrill of wonder or awe or curiosity that makes you want to step closer and analyze it. Or you might become mesmerized by it, drawn in by some indescribable emotion. At least that's how I feel when I walk around an art museum. I feel surrounded by beauty and passion, power and subtlety, humor and pathos... Don't other people feel the same?
Apparently not. I found out tonight that there are people alive in America right now who had never heard of Jackson Pollock. Or rather, they had heard of him, but only in passing, and never had a desire to go see his work or read about him or even watch the movie "Pollock." Where do these people come from? What do they do for entertainment? Don't they feel a huge void in their lives where Art should be?
Thankful for art am I. Thankful and blessed, because without art I think life would be very bland. Very boring. Then again, I'm the type of person that sees art everywhere. As I parted ways with my friends (they got bored of looking at the art after only 30 minutes!) and walked through the New York streets, I saw beauty and magic in the tall illuminated skyscrapers, the shredded paper on the sidewalks, the faces of people passing by, the patches of cloudy sky up above, where stars tried in vain to shine. I kicked myself for not staying longer at the MoMA, even if it would have been alone, but comforted myself with the realizations I've just described.
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