communing with saints

as an artist, visiting art always feels like communing with the saints, particularly in museums. you see, i feel the presence of van gogh in his brush strokes. it gives my heart a thrill when my nose is inches from the paint that he breathed life into. this evening's art murmur was no exception. i was surrounded, over and over, by souls poured out over canvas, bronze, clay, found objects, everything. but it was not my usual communion.

at a gallery, i have no idea what to do. i am great in museums. i can quietly contemplate art, allow it to bring me to the heights of joy and the depths of sorrow... politely, on my own, at my own pace and in my own space.

galleries are different. viewing art is suddenly social. people chatting with their friends about the pieces, each trying to sound smarter, more cultured than the other (yes, i realize i am a cynic about this whole art world thing). people dress for the occasion, and i generally don't dress for any occasion unless a dress code (or the my-mother-would-die-if-i-didn't-dress-up-for-this code) warrants it. i feel like an outsider. the kid who didn't' get picked for kick ball. the one standing by themselves in the gym waiting to be asked to dance. i am the wallflower in the gallery, afraid to talk, afraid to engage.

what is with that?

this time my art was even on the wall in one of the galleries (just one small piece). which was a first. but seeing it there brought me no thrill... just made me more uncomfortable.

so i have to work on claiming this gift of art that i have been given. i have to get to work. i have to be on the scene more. i have to see what this artist thing is about. i have to define for myself what that means. this is my goal for the summer.