I Try To Like Art Museums

I try to like Art Museums. I do. And I’m not sure why I try. It just seems like a thing that I should do. I should want to visit art museums. I should enjoy them.

And, to some extent, I do enjoy them. Sort of.

Maybe it’s an attention span thing, or maybe i’m just lazy, but I usually can’t be bothered to read the informational plaques next to the paintings. I just kinda walk by all the frames, occasionally stopping just to look. But I don’t need to know anything about it. Most people I’ve been to museums with like to read all the informational plaques. I end up at the end of an exhibit long before they do.

I’m reminded of the West Wing while walking through the Fables and Fairytales exhibit because the gallery is a gift from someone with the last name Bartlett. Now I’m just thinking about how I wish I could write like Sam Seaborn—or, rather, like Aaron Sorkin. He’d probably write something beautiful about art museums.

The thing about art museums to me is that they’re all kind of similar? I mean, no offense, but there’s only so many religious artifacts one can appreciate, right? Specifically Christian ones. My house is basically its own crèche museum in December. We’ve got nativity scenes all over the place.

I wanted to come to the Cleveland Museum of Art because I saw online that there was a Monet exhibit. I find out when I show up that I can’t actually go to said exhibit, because it’s member’s only, but I do like Monet. At least, I think I like Monet. He’s just the artist I remember most from elementary school art class. We learned how to make 3D-looking paths and rivers during the Monet unit. You start in the top corner of the page, and make the path wider as it gets to the bottom corner. Like a big triangle. And then you have a 3D-looking path. I thought that technique was cool. And now I remember Monet.

This is where I would put a picture that I took of a Monet painting that I could see.

Except I forgot to actually take any pictures of the Monet paintings that I could see.

Does it say anything about me that I just prefer the more realistic paintings? Generally that means American artists. Why do I love Norman Rockwell so much? Or a random picture of a guy and his dog? It probably means nothing. So I won’t go too deep.

There was a time when I wanted to do art, I think. I had sketchbooks. But I couldn’t draw. Or sketch. And I never found inspiration to try. Every time I did “art,” it was just words. I wrote them all fancy and stuff, but it was just words.

I could write about twilight. Or a sunrise. Describe them all pretty, I think.

But I could never actually paint it.

A painting of boats reminds me of Master and Commander. I want to write about boats. I want to write about pirates. I never really left that phase behind, unfortunately.

Okay, I also like pointillism. I remember that from elementary school art, too. The paintbrushes were different—the bristles were little cut-up pieces of rubber band. It made it easier to just “dot” the paint on, in order to make a full picture. Clearly didn’t stick with me as much as Monet ‘cause I don’t even remember which artist we were copying.

More boats. I want to write about boats. Probably should learn about boats, first.

I paid a $14 parking fee to walk around an art museum and write about how I don’t like them.

I do like the giant baseball mitt though.

This trip is short. I have a scheduled ticket for the Rock & Roll Hall of Fame.

Somewhere, someone is writing about not liking a whole museum about old bands and music. Who wants to see a whole entire Bon Jovi exhibit anyway?