Art Lost

Yesterday, I went with my family to the Tacoma Art Museum to see a glass exhibit by Tacoma-native Dale Chihuly. Apparently, Mr Chihuly is quite a well-reknown glass artist, appearing on PBS specials and the like. His work on display was quite impressive, I must say. I can appreciate the work it took to create all that glass, and can’t fathom what it takes to pack and ship the exhibit to the next location.

Over the years, I’ve really tried to appreciate visual art in it’s various forms. In some cases, I can appreciate the talent it takes to draw, paint, or sculpt whatever it is. In others, I go “why did you even bother to make that?” As to the meaning of said artwork, in most cases, it does nothing for me. I don’t feel compelled to analyze the meaning of it or even think too much about it. I look at it and go “that’s nice,” and move on. It might as well be words written in Swahili, it generally doesn’t do much for me.

As far as my own artistic talent, drawing or painting seems like computers must be to some people: beyond comprehension. I had to take a couple of art classes throughout my schooling and I just had zero talent. I’m occasionally reminded of my bad art skills when I have to draw something for my son.

There was a time in High School and in College where I tried to express myself in words — poetry. Much of the poetry I wrote had a negative connotation. Seeing as that was what I was feeling quite a lot of the time in High School and College, it’s not terribly surprising. I was trying to find some of the poetry that I had written, but most of that data was stored on disks I can no longer read (don’t have a Mac, and they’ve probably deteriorated beyond readable anyway). I do have a copy of two of my poems, though, because they were included in my High School’s art/poetry/story booklet, and I still have that.

At the time I wrote the poems, I wanted someone to read the poems, realize there was something wrong with me, and fix it. It took a long time for me to realize the only person that can truly fix anything wrong with me was, well, me. Maybe something similar motivates some of the other artists I’ve seen–believe me, of the non-Chihuly stuff I saw yesterday, I saw a lot of negativity out there. Maybe it’s something else that motivates them, I don’t know. Looking back now, I realize that I have created my own personal art. It’s probably never going to see the light of day again except as a conversation piece, nor will it likely change the world in any appreciable sense. What it did do is capture a moment within my personal history that I can revisit again at any time. It’s a reminder of who I was before and how far I’ve come as a human being. It’s worthless to most people, I’m sure, but it’s priceless to me.

I guess the old saying “beauty is in the eye of the beholder” is true.