Art in the afternoon

After a lovely breakfast, Sweet Hubby and I went to a small museum we had passed many times but never actually stepped into.  It is a perfect size for taking our time to see everything on display.  A lot (all?) of the art centered on the Pacific Northwest and PNW artists.

We discovered one artist, Howard Duell, who worked in an impressive number of different media.  From his obituary: He worked with paint, metal, wood, stone, and clay and was an early innovator using found objects in art.   I didn't necessarily love everything he created, but greatly admire his versatility.  Among  his many other pieces, there were two wire sculptures exhibited side by side and looking at them allowed me to see something about my relationship to art.  One was untitled, the other titled "Buffalo".  Both seemed equally abstract to me, but when I saw that one was called "Buffalo", I thought "Sure, I'll see a buffalo in there, if that's what you want, and thanks for the hint."

I realized that I have very mixed feelings about abstract art.  Whenever I see an abstract painting or sculpture, I find myself thinking both "Come on, what am I supposed to see?  What is this about?  Give me a clue." as well as "Ah, so I'm given the freedom to interpret this in whatever way strikes me, to see whatever I see in these shapes and colors, streaks and lines."  But too often, I just don't really see anything.  I mean, I know Jackson Pollack is considered one of the premiere modern American artists whose paintings broke new ground, but when I look at a Pollack, all I see are squiggles.  " What does it mean?  How is this good?  What am I supposed to take away from this?"  I suppose this makes me a philistine, and although I'd love to float around with the elite who seem to understand such things, I simply can't pretend to understand his work.  If the point is to view the paintings though an emotional rather than critical lens, then my emotions, when confronted by a Pollack, are irritation and puzzlement.

But anyway, back to this museum.  One room is devoted to paintings and sculptures featuring people reading.  I especially liked this room because I love anything which promotes reading and learning.

One last thought.  There were poems by David Wagoner on display.  He was a prolific PNW poet who died last year.  I rarely take photos with my phone, but one of his poems so captivated me that I took a photo of it so that I might share it with people when the opportunity arises.  I share it with you now.

Lost by David Wagoner

Stand still.  The trees ahead and bushes beside you

Are not lost.  Wherever you are is called Here,

And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,

Must ask permission to know it and be known.

The forest breathes.  Listen.  It answers,

I have made this place around you.

If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.

No two trees are the same to Raven.

No two branches are the same to Wren.

If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,

You are surely lost.  Stand Still.  The forest knows

Where you are.  You must let it find you.