Old Art Through New Eyes

Yesterday, I awoke excited about visiting the one "serious" art museum in Virginia, the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts in Richmond. I had not visited the museum since I was in Middle School, and what I remembered was that it was full of cheap excuses posing as art--or that's at least what I thought I remembered. Honestly, how much does a middle schooler really know about art? I did, however, awaken with the hope that my remembrance was faulty, and that the museum, in fact, might actually live up to its name--a museum of "fine art." I spent a couple of hours getting prepared for my day--art museums are, after all, perfect places to find a mate, and if the museum did not house great art in the media of paintings and sculpture, it might at least house living works of art, works of art of which I too desired to be a part. After spending more time than was necessary getting ready, I grabbed my bag (containing a resume and writing sample that I wished to leave with someone at the museum, along with Portrait of a Lady and the newest Vogue), and I headed out.

As I neared the brand new reconstruction of a building that held memories tainted by the prejudices of a middle-school aged child, I began to anticipate what I might actually find within. I suddenly saw myself entering a great cultural institution in a metropolitan area, rather than a poor excuse of an art museum in a poor excuse for a city. I entered the breathtakingly modern glass atrium (which was even more breathtaking with the "Free Admittance" sign over the front desk), and I had to stop, just for a second, to take it all in. This was my art museum. Living only 20 minutes away from it, I could visit this place whenever I desired. The joy that comes from visiting art museums is that you never view a work of art in the exact same way--but I'm getting ahead of myself. These are the thoughts that entered my head as I walked into that threshold space, but I had not yet seen any of the art. I grabbed a map and decided to just follow the weightless staircase directly in front of me--to go to whatever time period or geographic location these stairs led, artistically speaking of course, and I was not disappointed.

I entered into a world of abstract shapes and swirling colors, giant pages of magazines adorned with graffiti, and a head of Buddha "watching television" (a t.v. screen displaying himself, due to a camera directly over the television, pointed at Buddha's face). I was surrounded by some of the most stirring modern art I could have ever imagined--and what's more, each work had a lengthy description next to it, not only identifying the artist, but also providing, at times, a quotation from the artist along with an insightful description of the motivation behind the work of art. I was impressed! I have just recently begun to appreciate the endless beauty of modern art, with all of its cathartic qualities; however, having a frame of reference provided with which to read the work, as a jumping-off point, I felt like I could leave behind the corporeal realm, the realm of concrete reality, and I could enter into the spiritual realm, the realm of ideas and emotions. I found myself standing in front of a Rothko, the most stunning Rothko I think I have ever seen, and I realized that I had, for a moment, stopped trying to understand it and just started to see it, to experience it.

I moved on to less-abstract works, hunting scenes and portraiture from the Baroque and Georgian periods, time periods that have never really been my cup-of-tea (except for academic and interior design purposes). I was looking for the medieval art--my standard on which to judge the rest of the museum. Sure I had loved the modern wing, but if they lacked in medieval art, I probably would not come back, or so I told myself. I looked at the map and saw no sign of a "medieval gallery," and I began to get a little perturbed. Maybe they didn't even have one! I knew that I had just read somewhere that a window from Canterbury Cathedral was housed in the collection, but it could very well not be on display. I suddenly saw tapestries, at the end of a hallway. I began to walk faster. I actually think my heart-rate increased, only to be disappointed. These were seventeenth-century tapestries! But they led me to the entrance of the actual medieval gallery...and there was the window from Canterbury! It was beautiful! I turned around, and there was a statue of a bishop-saint that I oddly recognized. I walked over to the statue and saw that it had been lent to the museum by the Met. I had studied that sculpture while preparing for my interview at the Cloisters! Suddenly I felt at home. I recognized, in some cheesy way, an old friend. I looked around and was not at all disappointed. The few sculptures, capitals, and reliquaries in this first room (including a full-scale sculpture of Saint-Denis, holding his severed head!) impressed me more than I could have dreamed. And then I realized there was another room, and another, and another! The collection housed bronze-work, ivory, silver-stain roundels, and even a ring that more fully proved a paper I wrote for an art-history class! As I looked around at the saint's relics, images of the New Jerusalem, and even the feminine depiction of Satan, I felt as if I were in Heaven. The Met and Cloisters in NYC will always hold a special place in my heart, but I suddenly felt like New York was a little closer to home. Of course these works of art were not housed in the beautiful setting of the Cloisters, but they were each wonderfully significant pieces of art and history. Although I didn't want to tear myself away from this gallery, I realized that my stomach had been growling for quite some time--loud enough to disturb even the most uninterested child in the group of about twenty-five school children surrounding me. I decided I would check out the cafe.

I walked back downstairs, into that breathtaking atrium, and I found the cafe. I ordered a coffee and four-berry tart. As the cashier handed me a cup (the coffee was self-serve) and my tart, she sweetly commented on how cute the tarts were. I paid my 3.75, got the last bit of the coffee out of the dispenser, poured in a couple of drops of liquid sweetener, and sat down with my "cute" tart. I now surveyed my surroundings. The cafe was entirely glass (an extension of the entirely glass atrium) with a small deck overlooking a very still pond. The deck was so close to the water, the entire art museum appeared to be floating within this slightly-larger pool. I noticed one of my professors outside on the deck with two of his friends, each wearing shades of white and khaki and sipping white wine. He labels himself as an aesthete as well, so I guess this is what aesthetes do on Tuesday afternoons. I pulled out Portrait of a Lady and I tasted my tart. Oh my gosh, it was probably the most amazing bite of food I had ever had. It was not only "cute," it was perfection--my mouth is watering right now as I write about it. After I finished, I packed up my bag, and I headed back into the museum.

After aimlessly walking around the rest of the museum (and attempting to get a job...which unfortunately did not happen), I decided to head out. I had had an amazing day surrounded by some of the most beautiful works of art I had ever seen. The museum was not the Met, but it was surprisingly close (at least in quality if not in quantity). I was not disappointed at all--I had overcome all of my adolescent prejudices against the building, having more acutely developed my eye for beauty in the past decade of my life. As I walked out of the museum, pulling my over-sized sunglasses over my eyes, I was, for the first time all day, disappointed. I was disappointed because I could not go sit in Central Park and people-watch. I was disappointed because I could not go across the street to get an amazing cup of coffee at Cafe Sabarsky. I was even disappointed that I (a vegetarian) could not smell hot dogs being sold out of street-vendor's cart. I was disappointed because, for a second, I forgot I was still at home in Virginia.

Maybe Virginia is not as bad as I have built it up in my mind. Maybe the prejudices I have against Virginia are founded on the same grounds as those I had against the VMFA--that, with time and maturity, I will be able to look around me and see the real beauty that Virginia possesses.

Miraculous Unity

I am sitting with three of my best friends, engaged in a conversation that we appear desperate to finish, yet we are not actually saying anything substantial. Suddenly, music begins to play--it's Pachelbel's Canon in D, but with a slightly edgy feel to it--is that U2? The talking instantly stops and we all turn around--four faces in a crowd of indistinguishable guests--to watch an angelic procession. It appears that when the music began to play, reality shifted; we are no longer sitting in a church, we are sitting in someplace other, someplace outside of existence. Eight luminous girls walk in a single line down the aisle, dressed in satiny purple, holding freshly gathered flowers that actually dim in comparison to their bearers. The faint lights cause the fabric on each of the eight girls' dresses to glow with an inner radiance. Following this grand entrance, three fairy-like children come down the aisle--a boy holding symbols of perpetual unity, glistening, and two beautiful girls, gently dropping petals to the ground, appearing to make ready the earth for someone too glorious to walk thereon.

Then, all movement stops. Silence. No one dares even to move. I notice that, for a second, I'm not breathing, because the anticipation of what's to come is almost unbearable. I hear one of my friend's whisper, "She's going to be so beautiful," but I don't even acknowledge the comment because I don't want to miss that first glimpse.

Suddenly, we all rise in an act of reverence to the perfection that enters the sanctuary. The bride walks down the aisle, beaming, with her eyes glued to the man that she loves. For a second, she is unrecognizable--she appears to transcend humanity. She is not simply happy, she is happiness. The union of lover and beloved, two beings becoming one flesh, reveals the reality of miracles.

Welcome to My Musings

I decided the other day that I really wanted to begin a blog. I have no idea what direction this is going to take or whether it will even develop into anything, but I feel like a have a lot to say, and, now that I am no longer a wanderer in the world of Academia, I needed an outlet for my musings. As the title of my blog reveals, I consider myself an aesthete. I have always been ferociously attracted to beauty, so I decided that I would at least attempt to have the unifying theme of beauty in some way underlying my blogs. This undercurrent may become less and less apparent; however, since my love for beauty has been such a standard in who I am and what I like, I feel like my essence is most perfectly termed "aesthetic," and my musings will most likely be inspired by this aestheticism.

Over the past few years, my life has undergone extreme changes. I have just recently become fully comfortable with myself as a human being (well, I think I at least more fully understand who I am...). I have been raised in a house that puts a Divine Creator before all other earthly things, and although I have become my "own person"--one who does not simply accept facts or faith because others have told him to do so--I will always love and fear God. My faith in a Savior, however, does not exactly fall under the normative/dominant/prescriptive views of "Christianity" of which many people claim to be a part; I worship a God of love, a God of beauty, and I am a follower of Christ...but I am not a "Christian."

In the past few years I have learned a very important lesson. I learned that the God I love also loves me. He loves me. He loves Jamie, the gay aesthete. I did not understand that for 20 years, and I tried to change myself--at least in the eyes of everyone else--to be what one would consider "normal." Christian? I wanted to look like a Christian. I would go outside, and I would see how beautiful the world was, especially flowers--oh how I love flowers! Their beauty alone makes me feel light-headed, and their intoxicating scent makes me want to stop time permanently, just so I never have to stop inhaling them. They are my drug--and through the beauty of everything around me, I knew that God was there. My friend and I were talking the other day, and we both agreed that the beauty of creation acts as a reminder for us to worship the Creator. I loved God. I wanted God to love me, so I began to forcefully insert myself into a mold that no human can actually fit into, and yet so many pretend to fit into, especially those "Christians." I was not normal. I could never be normal. I had thoughts and desires that those-who-identify-as-Christians would vomit over--and yet, many of these people had the same desires too, secretly. Humans so easily open their mouths to vomit out words over another person's iniquities, even when they too share in those same thoughts and desires, secretly. I was confused--God wants us to pretend that we aren't perpetually sinning, that we are like these "Christians," who are afraid to be themselves because false conformity is so much better than exposed iniquity? Well, that's what I thought for the first 20 years. And then things changed, drastically.

Thanks to a group of my fellow aesthetes--those who will one day be professional aesthetes, my fellow interns at the Met in NYC--I began to question my two-dimensional life. Why was I conforming to what everyone else expected me to be and perpetually hiding from myself. I had no idea who I was as an individual because I was too busy being everyone else. I was a mirror--people could look at a reflection of themselves, and if they didn't like what they saw, they would blame it on a flaw in the glass. I was sick of being a mirror! In a dorm room, on the 23 floor, overlooking a Manhattan that was celebrating America's independence from tyranny, I celebrated my own independence from the tyranny of conformity--I came out of a very comfortable closet and was left exposed in a much-less-comfortable world. I took the first (and probably biggest) step towards finding out who I am.

Do I know who I am now? Not at all. I do, however, have a much clearer understanding of who I might be--an understanding that I would not have even dared to imagine three years ago. And guess what, God still loves me.

I hope you enjoy my musings.