4 Things I Learned at MoMA Yesterday

1. Why Monet used all those damn water lilies

Monet and water lilies are so interwoven in art history that it’s hard to disentangle the two. In the art world, I get the sense that they might as well be synonymous. I offer that prelude as a kind of apology—an apology for the fact that until yesterday, I never understood why Monet loved them to the point that he painted them hundreds of times. To me, Monet and water lilies seemed like a given; the pairing was like pancakes and syrup or Hall and Oates.

However, sitting for several minutes in front of the multiple-paneled Monet painting Reflections of Clouds on the Water-Lily Pond from his Water Lilies collection, I came to a startling realization. But before I get to that realization, I’ll offer a confession (this post so far is full of my shortcomings): I’m not really sure what one is supposed to do when looking at artwork.

Monet's Reflections of Clouds on the Water-Lily Pond in the Modern of Modern Art; photo by trish thanks to the Wikipedia Loves Art project

Someone recently explained to me (it might have been a professor) that when visiting an art museum or gallery, you should pick a few pieces of artwork and then stare at them for a long time, letting them “do their work” on you. Yesterday I chose this particular Monet and sat there for a few minutes to allow the painting do with me what it would.

I won’t go ahead and tell you that I taught myself some art theory sitting there on this bench staring at this Monet; in fact, I struggle to reconstruct my exact thought process as I looked at the painting. But somewhere in the middle of my meandering thoughts, everything converged on the notion of “surface.” A painting itself is, after all, simply a surface imposed upon the surface of the wall. This particular Monet painting (I’m ostensive here because modern painters tend to break away from this traditional aspect) is essentially pictorial—a flat surface depicting depth, assuming no depth itself.

Like many other Monet paintings, the puzzle is such that while the viewer sees the literal surface of the painting, there is another surface to contend with: the water. The surface of the water exists within Monet’s painting at an entirely different angle from the surface of the painting; the surfaces are neither parallel nor perpendicular to one another, but rather they are somewhere in between. Exactly how the perspective of the painting (i.e. the literal surface of the painting) is oriented with regards to the surface of the water is difficult to say. The little gallery note at the side of the painting (alas, I have neither a photograph nor a direct quote) suggests that it is impossible to ascribe a perspective or orientation when looking at the surface of the water.

That is, unless you think about the water lilies. The water lilies break up the reflective surface of the water in the painting; without the presence of the lilies, the painting would look abstract or, at best, an upside-down version of a colorful cloudy sky. The lilies are the key to revealing the surface. Perhaps that’s a moronic realization to have so late in life, but, nevertheless, the recommended method seems to have worked out pretty well. Pick a painting, stare, and think.

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2. Serious art can be funny…very funny

It might be said by some that looking at people looking at art presents its very own, distinct set of artistic implications and concepts. Indeed, German photographer Thomas Struth has capitalized on that reality, with his series of photographs of visitors to famous galleries such as the Louvre and the Prado looking (or not looking) at pieces of famous artwork. Struth plumbs some serious questions in that series of photographs, implicitly addressing our assumptions about how to approach artwork and even how to envision a space for the exhibition of artwork.

In that sense, Struth’s work is not entirely different from some of the conceptual artwork on display in MoMA. The key difference is that while Struth’s work is serious and takes itself seriously, there is an entire world of meta-art and conceptual art that doesn’t bother with seriousness. In fact, some of these pieces seem bent on simply making fun of themselves and the people (like me) who bother to spend time thinking about them. In other words, they’re fun!

One of my favorite conceptual pieces was Robert Barry’s 90mc Carrier Wave (FM). A (terrible) photo of the gallery note is below.

Robert Barry caption in MoMA; photo by Taylor Coe

On one hand, Barry’s goal of “[challenging] long-held assumptions about what defines a work of art and [expanding] notions of sculpture, positing that sound, like objects, can define space” is a perfectly plausible piece of modern artwork. On the other hand, people can find this very annoying. “What’s the point?” they might ask. The natural reaction, coming from someone who can appreciate Barry’s challenge of traditional assumptions about art, is humor. It’s very funny to watch people read this little plaque and grimace before walking off in a big huff. As I pointed out to my unhappy mother later on, “This isn’t the kind of art you buy and install in your home.”

Another fantastic piece was Lawrence Weiner’s A 36" x 36" removal to the lathing or support wall of plaster or wallboard from a wall. Weiner’s piece was exactly what the gallery note claimed it was: a square area—36" x 36"—removed from the wall to reveal the plywood beneath. Weiner’s body of work, as you can probably guess, is wild. His “declaration of intent” runs as follows:

1. The artist may construct the piece.

2. The piece may be fabricated.

3. The piece need not be built.

Each being equal and consistent with the intent of the artist the decision as to condition rests with the receiver upon the occasion of receivership.

While some viewers might find this clear lack of surety and total openness abrasive, I found it entirely amusing. Weiner, in A 36" x 36" removal, among other pieces, has created art that is almost infinitely connotative. To laugh, I now know, is not necessarily to scoff, but rather to enjoy in the process of interpretation, to grapple with these bizarre pieces and joy in their strangeness. To laugh, in other words, is not to dismiss.

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3. Art overload is a real thing

In the middle of trying to deconstruct a Mondrian (not really—I was just sort of admiring the neat 90° angles), my head suddenly felt cloudy and I had to turn away. All the pieces that I saw afterwards have fallen into a series of bewildered recollections. I think I saw a Man Ray or two…a Joseph Cornell piece…I had a glimpse of the Cy Twombly sculpture exhibit. However, all of it was lost on me. Too much art makes the mind go weak?

So before you do multiple art museums in a day, maybe you should reconsider. Either that or pick ten pieces you want to see and see ‘em. Maybe you’ll understand why Monet loves water lilies or why Van Gogh loves sunflowers (still working on that one…is that, unbeknownst to me, somewhere on Wikipedia?).

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4. Important art seems not so important in person…which isn’t our fault?

I haven’t seen the Mona Lisa, but I’ve heard from many that it’s an underwhelming experience. There are lots of people crowding around it and it’s hard to get any kind of good look at it…and it’s small. It’s a small painting with an oversize reputation. To be sure, the case is not quite the same with Vincent Van Gogh’s The Starry Night—which is not small exactly, at 29" x 36¼"—but there is something lackluster about seeing it.

My impulse is to point out that I’ve seen posters that size of the painting, probably seen posters even larger than the actual painting. But the real takeaway came when I wandered over to Jackson Pollock’s One: Number 31, 1950. Before I had seen a Pollock in person (I saw Number 2, 1949 at the Munson Williams Proctor Art Institute in Utica, NY last year), I doubted the gravity of their impact. I had heard from others how they had been bowled over by these pieces.

But the moment I stepped in front of one of these massive pieces, I understood. They are so expansive, so gargantuan, so…wall-spanning that you can’t even really see the entirety of one of these pieces at once. Stepping in front of One: Number 31, 1950 was markedly different from my experience in front of The Starry Night. The size of Pollock’s canvases was, in a way, a part of the modernist reaction to the smallness of the canvases in the painting tradition. If you haven’t seen a Pollock, then you should.

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None of this is to say that Pollock is better than Van Gogh (or even vice versa). I mean only to point out the cultural establishments that certain artworks have become; everyone in the Western world recognizes Van Gogh’s The Starry Night. But that status it has achieved remains somewhat independent of, say, my own viewing of the painting. A question I might pose: How could you not like The Starry Night? (More modern artists such as Pollock and Rothko make that question problematic.)

My point is that all of us have been culturally trained to like the Van Gogh painting. We see the painting in textbooks and on the walls of classrooms and on the t-shirts of tourists. The painting is inescapable. We’ve built it up in our mind’s eye to the point that it’s a myth of itself. It doesn’t really have a physical being any longer; it is an abstraction. Confronted with the real deal, we feel…well…shortchanged.