art consumption as a solo activity
and the healing properties of galleries
this week’s Thought (singular)
the battle against dehydration rages once more
hi
a couple of weeks ago, i went to a gallery that was exhibiting the works of lalitha lajmi. i had never heard of her, and i had no idea what i was in for, but i have a condition that makes me go for exhibitions simply because they’re open, and because i love the quiet of museums and galleries.
what i saw was a lovely and gritty body of work which dealt with themes of loneliness and reflection, with masks, mirrors, and clocks being frequent sights throughout the catalogue.
several pieces featured caged birds as motifs for entrapment and freedom, and a large number dealt with the relationship between women and their bodies.
if it isn’t clear yet, i know next to nothing about visual art as a whole, and paintings in particular. but still, what keeps drawing me back to art galleries and exhibitions? to answer that would be to answer the question - When art transports us, where do we actually go?. when i stand in front of a painting, with practically zero knowledge about composition and shading and lighting and framing, what am i really registering?
i have no idea. which is why i need to be alone while figuring it out. i may not know anything about oil on canvas, but i do know about solitude. and i know that being in a space that displays the physical manifestations of something visceral, a space dedicated to celebrating an artist, a painter, a photographer’s work is sacred. the consumption of art, like prayer, is a solo activity.
i’m not rejecting the idea of going to galleries with friends, not at all. i think visiting an art exhibition together is right at the pinnacle of social activity. but i do feel like the actual viewing, feeling, deciphering of whatever is evoked by a piece - these are all deeply personal. and yes, sometimes, maybe going to a gallery, and standing for endless minutes in front of a painting you can’t look away from for some indiscernible reason, and finally walking out feeling like something has been altered inside you is an experience that is better appreciated when you’re on your own. i think it’s a different joy to consume art with company, and it’s a deeper reflection to do it with yourself.
something quietens as you step out of a room full of paintings. it’s like when you take a walk after a bad day, and are frustrated and sulky throughout the duration of it, and despite your best efforts, you still feel better wen you come back home. something unmentionable happens inside places of art, something stills to a calm.
art is healing, and art is gentle, even when it’s violent and sad. the very transformation that occurs, however momentary, is therapeutic. being in a room full of paintings/photographs/sculptures for an extended period of time makes you reckon with a part of yourself that cannot safely emerge when you’re anywhere outside that cocoon of genuine creative artistic expression.
i don’t think i’ve done full justice to the topic at hand, but i don’t mind. the very nature of art consumption makes it not just intensely private, but also ineffable. it’s fine that i can’t adequately translate what i feel into words, because it’s unlikely that any combination or number of words will ever be adequate. which is the loveliest thing, and brings us back to the whole point of visual art in the first place in a fabulous full-circle moment - there are no words to express what i want to express. i can only do it through an image.
ps: while editing this, i realised that ‘a picture speaks a thousand words’ is right there. my bad.
English Recitation Competition
Untitled for a Reason, Tara Betts
you are the laugh that falls orange against my cheek and dries slight sweat cooling.
They are hostile nations, Margaret Atwood
In view of the fading animals the proliferation of sewers and fears the sea clogging, the air nearing extinction we should be kind, we should take warning, we should forgive each other
[can I do this spiritual drag…], Kari Edwards
can I do this spiritual drag, collective agony wishful thinking, fearful peek-a-boo actuality about to be read in unapologetic disinterested participation against fantasy without benefit familiarity, remembering distortion, forgetting drudgery necessary to consume anything cement sorrow, surrounded by transfer credit surcharge immortal siege ideology, submissive to appliance bodyisms in doubt in the face of stupidity—oops—knowledge, derivative of skin, bones, eyes and the rest, opposite abrupt aggressive remoteness here to serve another ascendant say-so? I tremble in doubt, divided by multiple entry points and explosive content wrapped in rambling overlays sent to the council on commentary, and without exception the animation either frenetic or dull, shifts to no options left, recognizing useless hope in the face of bomb holes caused by numbering digits.
A Poll!
(i think i’ve really got the pulse of my readers with these polls)
Middle School Book Review
your regularly scheduled book recommendation has been temporarily halted. watch this space over the coming weeks so you don’t miss the next one!
find all shared books here.
A Picture!
The Good Side of the Internet
The teenage girl stands at her mother’s grave, a middle-aged woman who was killed by the Iranian police during recent unrest in the nation. A white veil hangs around her neck. Her eyes shine with the same rage I’ve seen in the eyes of people who have lost a loved one during the Islamic regime’s brutal crackdowns. Her hair is shorn and she holds her long tresses in her hand. The other hand is obscured by gladiolas on the grave, but I can imagine the scissors she has used to cut her hair. She is from Kermanshah, the ancient city on the foothills of the Zagros Mountains. She knows — like all Iranian women — that to mourn is to cut her hair.
What Was Brangelina? (this is a few months late, but still very fun and interesting to read)
They were known for their image-making savvy. As their divorce reenters the press cycle, we’re reminded of who’s better at it.
Children in the Garden: On Life at a 3,100-Mile Race
Another beauty of endurance is that it is happening at all times. It is everywhere we look. To see someone, anyone, in this world is to witness someone engaged in a feat of endurance.
Thinking the Worst of Ourselves
We might be murderers, and we might not, but isn’t it safer to assume we are and be proven wrong? Maybe not.
The tradition allows private and public life to meet, maintaining a baseline solidarity in civic life.
this week’s Song
hug & kiss by dress, fka, Lydia Paek, and sogumm
find all shared songs here.
thank you for reading, and see you next week <3
yes? no? maybe? let me know!