I'm not generally very conscious of, or in, museums – I overload quickly, my attention wanders, and crowds of people throw me off a bit. The visual is generally not my strong point – I was reminded of this in teaching a course in performance art this year, as I started to notice that although I could register and be interested in a great deal when it is moving across a stage, I sort of lose track of what's going on when everything stops, and a picture or object just sits there. Particularly lately, Michael has told me several times about galleries in London he has seen with Andrew, and things he saw there, with details and pictures – but I tend to glaze over a bit. Oh well, can't do everything.
For instance, a long trip to the Tate Modern in London a few years ago – I was stunned by the huge multi-story space in the center, I remember lots and lots (and lots) of art works that show ideas I teach about modernist music and performance and culture, and in general thought it was terrific. Didn't remember much though, and couldn't really slow down and look at things as the day wore on – I was like a tired kid that wants to go home – until I saw an amazingly beautiful set of videos by Bill Viola in a dark space in the center of an upper floor, that had people diving into water and transformed into angels. But notice: they were video, not 'still' art – and I'm sure that's why I suddenly woke up that day.
But I was reminded of an amazing 'still' art exhibit that really caught me, in – it must have been the late 1980s or early 1990s? – when I visited the LA County Museum of Art, possibly for the only time. Again, an impressive building, lovely spaces, a huge variety of remarkable art works... and I was glazing over. Again.
Until I turned a corner into a small, new, quiet area of the museum, one filled with Japanese art. I'll admit to a special love for Japanese pre-Meiji art (back when I worked at the Smithsonian libraries in the late 1970s, I only really enjoyed lunch if I walked down the Mall to the Freer Museum, a very peaceful oasis with huge Asian paintings, drawings and sculptures, and even Whistler's Peacock Room – although that last is more of a symbol of brilliant work, as the paint has darkened so much that now it doesn't look like much of anything). There were various beautiful things in the room – the Japanese communities in California are often well off, and conscious of their heritage – but the absolute best was row upon row of netsuke arranged in graceful arcs in a display case that ran almost the length of the room – the small sash buttons that were transformed into astounding little sculptures.
The tiniest things you've ever seen – the very biggest about an inch and a half in height – and every one vastly different, incredibly detailed, ivory and amber and other materials. Some very dignified or abstract, many hilarious or otherworldly or frankly bizarre – extraordinary detail and imagination, all astounding, and so many of them. The pictures don't quite do them justice, mostly because the eye assumes they must be much bigger than they are – it is the miniature quality that helps make these beautiful objects so astounding; one starts to wonder about the skills and abilities of the carvers, and how they could do such amazing things in so little space.
And the pleasant setting: wide tinted windows overlooking the park, the quiet light in the room, and only a few people dropping by once in a while. I was probably there for two hours or more, just looking at these tiny objects, trying to remember them all... it was a good day.
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