Today in class, a girl announced that a visiting curator from Washington D.C. would be lecturing in the Museum of Art at 7 p.m. To encourage people to go, Soper said that we could use it in for our "Great Works Response." So, of course, I went. It was either going to this droll, exhausting lecture or enduring a 2-hour Western. I went and it was, of course, amazing.
I arrived five minutes late to a packed gallery of students writing feverishly in their notebooks. When the door closes, only one or two turn; the rest are too engrossed in the obvious grandeur of the lecture. I sit on the floor, next to the door, unable to find a seat. I begin listening to this woman, this Milena Kalinovska, talk which her thick Czech accent about the Communist nation she grew up in.
In 1968, she decided to go West, and for the Czechs I guess going west is going to England. She said that it was irrational, that looking back, it was insane to consider leaving, but she wanted to escape and experience life. She had one suitcase filled with ten pounds worth of belongings. While she's talking, I look around the room again, more interested in the people than in the lecture. To my right is a young couple sitting. The boyfriend is reading the newspaper. He definitely didn't want to come, but young love drives people to do crazy things.
Trying to focus my attention on the presentation, I begin to notice the slideshow on the wall, and the picture being shown is of a strange white sculpture that looks like an egg crushed into a million pieces and rearranged again. It could possibly be Humtpy Dumpty. I try to listen attentively, but even straining I can't make out the words and even when I do hear her speaking, Kalinovska's accent is a death trap. I sighed, leaning back against the wall and just catching random bits of conversation.
"Father...midnight...breaking the code of the Smithsonian..."
I'm sure it's fascinating, but since I'm on the ground, I'm having a hard time distinguishing between the voices around me and the voice onstage. I can hear the man asking the questions clearly, but what good are questions when there are no answers?
"American...another telephone call...."
She keeps on talking about her rise to fame, but with people wandering in and out of the hall, it's hard to understand.
"The artists were determined to find themselves...ordinary material to make great things..."
The next part of the lecture I could make out. She was talking about a fellow artist who she admired in the 1980s while she was in England. I personally thought he wasn't the best artist I'd seen, but she kept on raving about how "you can see the glue, the screws, the bent wood" of this sculpture. Words cannot describe it. It looked like a mass of deformed rocking chairs that the artist had attempted to morph into a giant fish while still keeping the chairs intact. But, she had wanted this artist in her gallery (I can only guess that she was a curator at that point, but I missed that vital fact in the conversation) but he was unable to do so as he was already in league with another gallery. Apparently, you cannot put works in two galleries at once. What a shame. His modernist view on art would have inspired artists for generations to come.
She kept on talking about this piece of art. "Two thousand dollars," she said. "Two thousand dollars for this beautiful show. For this cloth with wood, steel with wood."
The next piece of art she shows is actually fascinating. Two blocks of something (she later told us it was bread) with figures depressed in the centers. One is male, one is female. The body tells the story of art; without the body art could not exist. She told a joke about the artist eating the bread for the depressions; the audience laughed, wanting to make her feel welcomed.
I sit up, wanting to see the woman making the laughter. I see a flash of dark red hair, but the only face I can see is the man asking the questions. I look closer- fat, brown hair, receding hairline. Is that my old art history teacher? I can't tell without getting closer. I guess I'll never know. How sad.
I look around the room again, bored, wishing that the lecture was over. 7:28. I still had 32 minutes. People are still taking notes, acting like the words that fall out of her mouth are made of gold. But then, I realize something- why is Kalinovska talking about other people's art? Isn't she an artist? Why would I care about other people's art?
Her story is interesting though. She talks about her homeland, how growing up in a communist nation made her realize what people were saying and how she needed to be open about art. It is all very enrapturing, but my mind keeps on wandering.
Some girl sitting in front of me is taking up two chairs. One is holding her leg, which has a wrap around her upper thigh. I'm a little angry. The pregnant woman who just sat down on the floor should be sitting in a chair. Whatever happened to common decency?
"This photo makes us aware..." A picture is up on the wall. A man on a horse in front of the mountains. It sold for $1 million, but the man who sold it didn't even take the picture. Where's the justice in this world?
The significance of the photo was that it meant photos could be considered high art. A chair opened next to me, but I'm too lazy to get up. Someone else takes it five minutes later. Some Korean boy with spiky hair in black clothes.
Kalinovska keeps talking about the storytelling of art, how it elevates us to a higher plane of thinking. Meanwhile, my mind has already taken off to another plane of thinking. I'm admiring the 31 diamonds on my left ring finger, making it sparkle it the dim light. The kids in the back are starting to slack off- some are texting, and the guy forced to be there had finally fallen asleep on his girlfriend's shoulder.
"...sex..." I heard. Strange how that one word can snap you back into the present world. A new picture is up on the wall- two long, horizontal paintings, with scrolls and cave-man paintings of women. According to Kalinovska, not only can this relate to women, but to all of us. I still don't see the point of it.
I look around. Several people have walked in, even though we're 40 minutes into the lecture. One is a boy wearing a mustard yellow coat, a red and navy striped tie, and dark khaki slacks. Oddly enough, even with the red hair and glasses, he still manages to look like a classy nerd.
"Look within ourselves for answers," she drones on. People in the back are still texting. Most of the crowd is probably forced to be here, for one class or to keep their significant others company. The ones that care sit in the front, not in the back with the late comers. They're 15 minutes early with a notebook in hand, ready to partake of the vast knowledge she has to offer us.
Some begin trickling out. I envy them as I rearrange myself on the tile floor. I'm beginning to think it would nice to leave.
Suddenly, several families walk through the museum. At first, I thought it was one big family, but after the 15th child I began to hope that one woman wasn't forced to give birth to all of them. That just sounds unpleasant.
Kalinovska (I'm still having a hard time spelling that correctly) keeps talking about how art should share the excitement of creativity. People are talking, some are listening, but after she mentioned "rhetorical image" I was out of there. One thing I do not mess with is rhetoric; it just keeps you awake at night. Sorry Socrates. I don't know how you did it.
And word to the wise- do not walk in late wearing high heels. You are the biggest distraction there.
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