So maybe I am an art museum snob, but is it really necessary for people to make quite so much noise while in a museum? Is it really of dire necessity that you discuss cousin Pam's latest hernia surgery in out-door voices while blocking the best view of a Monet masterpiece for however long it takes to get to descriptions of her recovery. I mean, really . . .
I have always been in favor of people visiting art museums. For my own part, they are usually the major highlight of any trip to a new city. So I certainly cannot begrudge anyone the iniative that drove them to the museum in the first place. However, I do see a strong need for some kind of pre-visit museum etiquette course that you can prove you've passed before you are issued your charming little button as proof of payment. After all, they issue licenses for just about everything else these days, why not for museum visits, too?
While not sitting here trying to claim that each and every person passing through the museum doors will enjoy the art inside in the same way and through the same methods, does it not seem likely that visits will prove more enjoyable for all if we can find a way to weed out the cell-phone answers, hernia surgery discussers, and those who tromp from room to room, stepping right in front of others with little more than a cursory glance at what is on the walls?
Call me a snob, but I feel inclined to ask those sorts if they wouldn't be happier in the mall, breezing from one flashy store window to another.
There is one particular room in the Philadelphia Art Museum that I just adore. Nestled in among the rooms of the contemporary art exhibit, it displays a slew of paintings by different artists -- but I like every single one. From Toulouse-Lautrec to some Rodin sculptures, and a portrait of a severe-looking Spanish arisocrat, every piece of art in that room captivates me. But it almost annoys me to go visit it on a weekend afternoon because I leave feeling like such a misanthrope. A world-class display of impressionist era art, and people literally clomp through the room, laughing uproariously or tittering while dropping their programs carelessly on the floor. I get more peeved than I can believe.
But before I sound like a complete clod, I have to admit how pleased I am when I see someone gazing up at what has become my favourite painting in the whole place (which is saying something considering how huge that museum is). It's a Lautrec painting that has been seen on countless posters all around the world, but it more than anything other piece makes me wish there was a way to bring back the painter, just for a moment, so that I could ask him what he was thinking when he created it.
The one shockingly red man -- with a bright tailcoat and a mass of reddish curls -- who stands amid the crowd at the back of The Dance at the Moulin Rouge has always been such a mystery to me. He stands out, the first thing my eye travels to when I look at the painting. But he seems like such a small character, and hides in the back of the crowd. Yet his presence has an air of intention, of purpose, about it, and I have to think that the painter put him there for some significant reason, though I cannot fathom what it is.
And it always makes me happy to see someone standing there, looking up at the painting with a wistful expression on his face, because I imagine he's thinking of the same thing. So long as he is not talking about his hernia surgery while doing it ...
Eh; I guess I am an art museum snob. And proud of it.
