Gallery Hopping is Not Touristy

There is a strange conversation that takes place amongst people when they learn of others who are travelling. 

"You certainly aren't going to that, are you? It's so touristy."

I'm never certain how to respond to such a query. Of course, I'm going to see that or do that. I'm a tourist, for f*** sake. What should I do, instead? Wait for a local to stumble across my sad Canadian self and take pity on me with an invitation to guide me to all the local hidden gems? What utter nonsense. I'm a visitor. Hitting the highlights is what I'm afforded. Touristy is my mantra.

Today's tourist agenda had us headed to places of highbrow culture and art. El Museo del Prado and El Museo de la Reina Sofia were both necessary additions to our itinerary. The Prado is the largest art museum in Europe, or so say the Spaniards. If you ask a Frenchman, they will tell you that The Louvre is bigger. Let them fight. I'm fairly certain wars have been waged for less honour. I just want to be dazzled by artistic brilliance.

I will say up front that the collection at the Prado isn't my usual cup of creative tea. I tend to favour paintings that aren't quite so Christian-centred. As The Husband remarked, there are themes of death and destruction that seem to run through much of these great works. That said, I wanted to add the Prado to my list of great art museums. 

It is a wonderful place. They gift visitors with a floor plan and some not-to-be-missed highlights. As we wandered the great halls, I played a strange version of great master BINGO. I checked off the important works on my map and spent extra time reading the summaries. As I played, I realized I was learning and developing an appreciation for things I had previously dismissed. I really got into it while watching several groups of schoolchildren who were on field trips. I loved listening to their questions (juvenile Spanish is right there in my wheelhouse) and I enjoyed the animated looks on their faces. One teacher had her students pose in ways that mimicked a certain painting. The kids loved it and so did I. Groups of high-schoolers were filling out questionnaires their teachers had given them. It was like a teenage scavenger hunt through the Spanish masters. By the time we were done, I had checked off more than fifteen paintings on my BINGO card and felt artistically sated.

The collection at La Reina Sofia was very different. This is the home of Picasso's masterpiece Guernica and we made a beeline for it before it was overrun by crowds. The queen's collection also includes many works by Dalí, Miró, Matisse, and Gris. This art is far more my thing. I love imagining the artists in their studios going through their creative processes. It amazes me how talent rises and the journey it takes. 

I suppose you could classify our visits to the galleries as touristy. I really don't care. It is what travelling to different places is all about.

Some random thoughts:

• Gallery patrons need to learn some etiquette. View the painting and then move out of the way for others to see. There were times today I felt like a child at a parade behind a family of tall people.
• La Retira park in the museum district was a lovely oasis for our lunch. It is sort of like a small Central Park.
• While I am grateful that the rain has passed, it is unseasonably cold in Madrid. While most of Europe is basking in record heat, Iberia has been really chilly. I am looking forward to the warm up as we head south.
• This city is not easy to navigate. The roads go every which way and there seems to be little logic behind the layout. Thank goodness for Google Maps.
• I had the weirdest experience at the Prado today when these two painting were right next to each other. I am just sharing the descriptions because the docent yelled at me for taking photographs. Check out the names of the paintings.
  
  
  
  
  
  
• What the hell is this doing here?

Some photos from today. Some from The Husband and some from me. You figure out who is the better photographer.

Rubens (My favourite from The Prado)

Guernica

Dalí

A Few Stories From Paris

We have done a great deal since the last time I wrote. Museum visits, a trip out to Versailles, a creepy tour of the catacombs, and a hike up Montmarte. At the bottom, I will give some highlights in my quick thoughts portion of the post, but for now, I wanted to tell a few short stories of human interest.

A couple of days ago, while we were touring the Louvre, The Husband and I happened upon an elderly gentleman who was taking a breather in the Dutch Masters' rooms. Twin Son wanted to view some Rembrandt paintings, so after we had pretty much exhausted our initial tour with Carinne, she took us to the other side of the museum to see the great man's work. While we were there, The Husband nudged me as he wanted me to look at the older gentleman sitting next to him. The man had to be in his eighties with a face that looked like it had seen a lot. Upon a closer look, it was evident to both of us that he wasn't in very good shape. He was slightly stooped, and while he was making a concerted effort to look his best, his jacket had definitely seen better days. There were tears under both sleeves and across his shoulders. He sat quietly in the Dutch room, dozing. None of the docents bothered him as he took his afternoon siesta, and I wondered if he was a regular visitor to the museum. As Carinne explained some of Rembrandt's work to us, I was captivated by the old man and wondered aloud to The Husband what his story might be. This old man's face stuck with me as we departed from The Louvre. 

Yesterday afternoon, we met up with Carinne again for our private tour of Musée D'Orsay. We were terribly excited to get up close and personal with The Impressionists and Post-Impressionists. Honestly, this tour has been circled on my calendar for months. The brushstrokes and vibrant colours simply jumped off the canvases and did happy dances on my retinas. I absolutely love this period of artwork. The great works of Manet, Monet, Cezanne, Pisarro, Degas, Renoir, Van Gogh, Gaughin, and Toulouse-Lautrec are so plentiful here that I was experiencing a type of sensory overload. I honestly didn't know where to look first. I was like the proverbial kid in the candy store. I was recounting a story about my grandfather and a Degas copy (I'll tell you that story below) when I looked up and saw him again, the same gentleman in the same torn jacket. The coincidence was striking. Once again, he was just sitting in Impressionist Room, taking in the art and the people, and nobody bothered him. As we were leaving the museum, The Husband pointed him out to me for the final time. I have made up a dozen stories about this old dude in my mind. Does he spend all of his days in the museums? Who pays for him? Is he a senior art historian? Maybe he is a retired professor? Perhaps he is a widower and remembers happy days spent in the museums with his dear wife? I honestly have no idea, but I cannot get this gent out of my mind. The odd thing is that I believe that if I went back to one of those two museums today, I think we could find him. A small story from our time in Paris.

A few random thoughts.

* I promised you the story of my grandfather and the Degas. My grandparents had a large painting in their living room that looked like a copy of one of Degas' ballet scenes. It was a recreation of a ballet master holding court during a rehearsal. It was over their sofa, and the memory of it was embedded in my cerebral cortex. Many years later, when The Husband visited my grandfather for the first time, he saw the painting and noted it was done by a cousin of his who had survived the concentration camps. He must have been influenced by Monsieur Degas. I would have loved to have been able to keep that painting, but a surly aunt descended on my grandparents' house after their deaths and absconded with it. I have no idea where it is today. Seeing Degas' paintings of the ballet school in Musée D'Orsay left a large lump in my throat. 

* I forgot this little tale of our visit to Monet's Water Lilies. As we sat in the room breathing and taking in the atmosphere in silent contemplation, a guy sitting next to The Husband was scrolling through his phone, watching cat videos. I have nothing else to add to that atrocity.

* The Palace at Versailles is the definition of opulence. Every room is more garish than the last. I wonder if Agent Orange got his sense of style from Louis XIV. The gardens, on the other hand, are breathtaking. I could spend weeks there.

* We took a jaunt over to the catacombs, and I will admit to being more than a bit freaked out. I don't do bones well. Over six million souls are entombed down there; honestly, it is a really cool place to visit. I just felt like a voyeur disturbing the dead. As we made our way to the surface, one of the security people checked my backpack for any bones that might have been absconded. Why would anyone think to do that?

* The Pantheon was a bit more my speed. Death with dignity. The tombs of great French writers, thinkers, scientists, and politicians are laid to rest here. I got more than a little excited seeing the graves of Marie and Phillipe Curie and Josephine Baker. 

* We have had excellent guides on this trip. Carinne, who The Professional Volunteer encountered during an online experience, was truly incredible for the art museums. If anybody is coming this way and would like a private tour through any of the many art museums of Paris, contact me offline for her information. Today, we arranged a private tour of Versailles and Bertrand, our guide, was funny, knowledgeable, and a real character. I have taken tours worldwide, but I think doing it privately is the way to go if you can make it work. We have learned and seen so much.

* The Professional Volunteer spent part of her youth in France and has many warm memories. Thanks to The Divine Spirit for her and Twin Son's Better Half's ability to speak French. Things would be far more difficult without the two of them and their language skills. While she was here many years ago, The Professional Volunteer had a portrait of herself done in Montmarte. With a photograph of that picture in hand, she found another sketch artist in the same area to draw her today. It was a charming nod to a memory of her parents.

* I am not usually a sweets eater, but eating French macarons in Paris is a must. The shop windows at the boulangeries are art. 

A few more days to come with a couple more posts to enjoy. 

The old gentleman

Van Gogh Self Portrait

Degas' dancers

Paris at night

Versailles

Some of the 100,000 acres of gardens at Versailles

Retrieving a memory

How I Became One with Van Gogh

I FINISHED THE PUZZLE.

If you've been following this bizarre and obsessive journey with me over the last month on social media, you will know that this is a big fucking deal. I will explain why in a bit but in the meantime, you can insert any happy dance you'd like in the comments so that we can all celebrate together. We are so devoid of fun and silly interludes lately, that I thought that we all deserved the accolades, even though today really is mostly about me. So...bust a virtual move and fete my accomplishment, weak-assed though it may be. 

 I chose this one. 

Diversions are not easy to come by in the pandemic age. There is only so much cooking, cleaning, sorting,  and baking a girl can do. I have learned how to not kill a sourdough starter thanks to the expertise and patient tutoring of my lovely cousin/niece. I have turned said starter into so many carb-laden baked goods that The Husband has threatened me with two-a-day training sessions. I have perfected my Shabbat challahs. I have exercised so much that I have hit my move and workout targets for 112 straight days and I have the receipts to prove it. (I don't think I've lost a pound given the abundance of aforementioned baking.) I have binged watched television series and binged listened to podcasts. (Watchmen and Pose are phenomenal television viewing and the new season of the Slow Burn podcast about David Duke is simply frightening. Also, as a comedy kick and homage to the late Carl Reiner, The Husband and I have been rewatching the old Dick Van Dyke Show on Amazon Prime. It is fabulous and still really funny.)

I can't seem to focus on a book. I manage to read a chapter or two but my mind wanders helplessly to other less inviting thoughts and I stop. I've only managed to finish one all summer and it distresses me. Hopefully, this will remedy itself soon but in the meantime, there is always a jigsaw puzzle in progress on our dining room table.

I have been enthralled with puzzles for decades. Over the last few years, it has become a mother/daughter activity while we snowbird in Florida. Mom and I have spent hours bonding and chatting over thousand-piece jigsaws. They are fun, calming, and offer a concentration level that tunes up the mind and memory, a truly zen experience. The pandemic and quarantine have meant that Mom and I have been puzzling separately. Earlier this past spring, I noticed that The Husband was sitting from time to time and fiddling with pieces. It became a way for him to decompress after a particularly arduous phone call or Zoom meeting. So, I was thrilled when he suggested that we walk over to the toy store nearby and purchase some gifts for Molly and, maybe, a couple of new puzzles. 

He chose the Van Gogh. 

Don't let him tell you otherwise. This entire episode that has encompassed a full month of our wedded bliss is wholly and entirely his fault. We had just come from the Immersive Van Gogh experience that is playing here at the old Toronto Star building and we were wonderfully reminded of just how much we love and are mesmerized by Vincent's work. The man was a true genius. Tortured and lost in his own thoughts, but nevertheless, a genius. We have seen several of his paintings in person over the years. His Starry Night is probably one of the most recognizable pieces of art in the world and has been commercialized to such an extent that one can buy anything affixed with its image. (There is even a song written about it if you don't mind a Don McLean earworm.) If you haven't seen Starry Night up close and personal, I highly recommend a post-pandemic trip to New York and a pilgrimage to the Museum of Modern Art. I snuck this photo of it the last time we were there. 

It is hard to discern from the photo just how many colours and brushstrokes he used. The moon with the sun rising over it isn't merely yellow. It is yellow mixed with several shades of greens and blues and purples. The brushstrokes run in all directions. To the naked eye, the village below is a shadowed sketch of muted browns, greys, blues and blacks but upon further review, the greens and turquoises jump forward. And the very thing this masterpiece is known for, the stars, are muted in the photograph. Thousands of pinpoints of gold dot the entire canvass. Vincent painted it in 1889 during his stay at the asylum of Saint-Paul-de-Mausole near Saint-Rémy-de-Provence. Even though he was going through a particularly dark period, he wrote about this canvas in a letter to his brother Theo and about how beautiful the night sky and the village below his window appeared. 

This morning I saw the countryside from my window a long time before sunrise with nothing but the morning star, which looked very big. Daubigny and Rousseau did that, though, with the expression of all the intimacy and all the great peace and majesty that it has, adding to it a feeling so heartbreaking, so personal. These emotions I do not detest.

I am almost certain that Van Gogh never foresaw his painting being cut into a jigsaw puzzle. Each piece is a nightmare of colours and swooshes. Brushstrokes that appear to fit together, simply don't. What Van Gogh saw as an explosion of hues dancing across the pre-dawn sky, I saw as a dizzying array of shit. Each piece looks like thirty others and they all seemingly fit together. Some examples.

We were seeing colours and swirls in our sleep. We found ourselves holding pieces up to the window so that the light would better define the fit and the subtle tones. After week one, The Husband gave up. He wanted to throw the damn thing off the roof. I wasn't as willing to pack it in. It became an obsession, much like Vincent's need to paint the bloody thing in the first place. I posted my first update on social media almost a month ago and was stunned to find out how many of my friends had attempted this crazy-assed thing and subsequently abandoned the task. It was then that I realized that not only would I make every effort to finish it, but I would also attempt to find a small measure of peace while doing it. What looked and sounded crazy to many became a necessary escape for me. I found myself lost in paint swooshes and totally captivated by pinpoints of light. I could almost imagine myself walking across the hills in twilight or singing under the moon. I now know every single inch of this painting. I have become a master of its intricacies. While he was in a self-quarantine, Van Gogh painted his greatest masterpiece. During a month of my quarantine, I recreated his journey.

This puzzle was a struggle until the very last piece. A friend remarked yesterday that I was either extraordinarily patient or maybe a bit crazy. I don't usually like words like crazy. We are all feeling a lot these days and "crazy" seems like it should be reserved for something else. I will acknowledge struggling as are so many others. The struggles are baked in but patience is a learned virtue during this time of uncertainty. It has never been a strong suit of mine but I am getting there. A month of this puzzle has certainly broadened my equanimity.

I am planning on leaving it together for a few days. I think I've earned it. I am willing to pass it on for the fearless among you but only with the caveat that you see it through to the end. If you think that you might give up, this offer isn't for you. Let me know and we can arrange an exchange. In the meantime, I eagerly await the next jigsaw. I'm thinking something cartoonish might be best.

Don't forget to leave me a happy dance. I've earned it.

Mrs. Green, in the Kitchen, With the Mugs Part 5 (Our Finale)

We seem to do outrage and anger really well these days. Everything offends us. We are sent reeling by bad speech or slips of the tongue. We can't believe that our family members or neighbours support this party or that one and we find ourselves reevaluating so many of our relationships based on unshared ideology.

I get it.

There is much to be angry about right now and outrage fuels our desire to change things for what we hope will be a collective betterment.

But outrage and anger are also completely exhausting. I have, quite honestly, lost count of all of the things about which I am supposed to be angry. Another story of sexual assault and child abuse? Outrage. Another attack on our crippled environment? Anger. The diminishing of personhood for people of colour, women, or LGBTQ? Rage. Anti-Semitism or Islamaphobia? Fury. Income inequality? Temper.

I'm just tired and I'm certain that there are those in positions of power who are counting on my lethargy and pounded-into-the ground ambivalence to further advance their heinous agendas, which is why I am actively trying to reserve my "Rage against the dying of the light" for those causes and macro-movements which need my full-powered energy. A procrastinating contractor, a ruptured piece of artwork, or a few broken mugs, while truly irritating, are not really worthy of my sustained outrage.

Yes. It is true that I was pissed off when I saw the broken mugs, especially given the level of packing material that was obviously used. I still cannot figure out how three mugs, that weren't even grouped together in the box, wound up as mosaic pieces. That said, just as I was ready to head over to a UPS outlet with my return slips in hand, I received an email from Mrs. Sweetpea? Green.

This is an exact transcript of her missive. (I have even left in her ridiculous spelling of the word "colour".)

Hi Dawn,

I am so sorry to hear about your troubles.  Do you happen to know which colors are broken?  Would you like me to send you replacements? Let me know pls!

Best,
Mrs. Green

I find it kind of hilarious that Mrs. Pre-teen? Green can't find a way to spell out the entirety of the word "please" and is more than happy to address me by my given name but still has not seen fit to allow me the same courtesy. That said, I was thrilled to receive her email and immediately forwarded the colours that were in shards back to her. Of course, I initially made an error as to the correct colours, a truly Dawn mistake, but I fixed it immediately. I also asked her if she wanted me to send photos to confirm my grievance about the damage. She quickly replied that it wasn't necessary and that she would ship out replacements immediately. An hour later, I received yet another confirmation email with a shipping number to follow. This phenomenal customer service all occurred within an hour of me accepting shipment of the first set of mugs. Wow.

I told The Husband that I would hang onto Amazon's return shipping label and original packaging in the likely event that I would still have to send the mugs back. The wonderful thing about their return policy is that I had a full two months leeway, so even if the second set of mugs came damaged I wasn't up against a crazy deadline. Have I mentioned that my affection for Jeff Bezos is starting to veer into Tiger Beat pin-up obsession territory?

And so...we waited. A weekend's worth of waiting. And then today...magic. 

I received a box that was totally intact.

 It was filled to the brim with non-biodegradable packing peanuts and bubble wrap.

And inside each individual packet of bubble wrap was a perfectly intact and pristine new mug...in the desired colours.

Mrs. Beautiful Forest on a Sunday Morning? Green came through just like she said she would. There was no further cost incurred for the shipping and the broken mugs will be offered to anybody who might like to use them for an art project. 

I know that you have been secretly hoping for a moral to this elongated and ridiculous recounting and here's the thing...there actually is one. We all have tales about how miserably we have been treated by others, especially lately. Customer service really bites the big one in most industries and many workers are either too tired or too underpaid to really give a damn. But I am here to attest that there still are some really decent people in this world who take pride in their work and in the businesses they run. From our "came very highly recommended" contractor who showed up the day after we arrived in order to make right all of the little things in the project that needed attention; to our amazing artist friend who repaired The Husband's error and refused compensation; to a huge multi-national like Amazon that was ready to take back the damaged mugs; to Mrs. Brilliantine? Green who shipped out replacements within an hour of being notified, they all acted responsibly, compassionately, and quickly. There was every reason at every level to rage against a faceless somebody but nobody allowed any of these stories to escalate and everybody wanted to make certain that we were happy and satisfied. Seriously. How often can you lay claim to that?

So my advice, dear readers, is to take a step back and decide if all of that outrage and anger you are feeling these days is well-placed. I would be the first to tell you that feeling angry about the big-ticket issues is so very worth your time and high blood pressure. Fight the good fight and rage like a banshee as if you were the 21st century Dylan Thomas when you see injustice and hate rear their ugly heads but I'm pretty sure that we can't live in an angry, hostile state for the rest of our lives. We need to find some much-needed balance and peace that comes from witnessing decent people behaving decently toward each other. It may be a low bar we have set for ourselves in these tumultuous times but I will take whatever tranquillity that is offered right now.

So, if you will all excuse me now...I am going to make a cup of tea in one of my brand-new mugs and just chill.

Mrs Green, In the Kitchen, With the Mugs Part 2

A few devoted readers, who, it seems, have nothing better to do with their lives but lovingly devote their time to reading this vanity-induced space of complete garbage, have asked over the years when my book is coming out. The answer is always the same. I am simply incapable of writing anything longer than it would take these wonderful friends to read in the time that it takes waiting for their Wifi connection to run out on the subway platform. If I could come up with an idea for anything more substantive than what is produced here, I would have started it years ago. Instead, I keep subjecting all of us to this useless drivel. I am profoundly impressed and honoured that anybody is still reading this crap and I do promise that if I can find some profound meaning or independent, creative, and original thought that might be better than this bullshit, I will put cursor to screen and brain-fart it out. Until then, you are all stuck with this codswallop. (That paragraph was an exercise in synonyms. How many words can Dawn find that mean bullshit without her using a thesaurus. I impressed myself.)

When last we left our heroes, they were marvelling over the beauty of their newly renovated kitchen at the Southern Home. The "comes very highly recommended" contractor had come to finish off the last of his tasks and to clear out the mounds of garbage that his workers had accumulated over six months of less than linear work. To call the place a fucking mess is being very kind to fucking messes. There were empty boxes filled with construction waste strewn everywhere; piles of sawdust on the balcony from where the workers cut and shaped cabinetry; empty water bottles all over the counters; a white chalky shmutz lined the bathroom sink from where they mixed the grout; and there was dust so thick on every surface in the apartment that you could actually see track marks from where the summer insects had held their Olympics. These guys are very good at their jobs but neat and tidy they are not. The task of cleaning was set before us. Our jobs, should we choose to accept them, were to scrub, polish, and shine this place to a level that could pass Dawn's inspection. It was a herculean task but manageable.

Add to that, there was the task of rehanging and repositioning all of the artwork that had been stored. Keep reading. That comes later in this post.

The Husband took on the balconies and the windows. He is so very good at this. I would hire him out to make some extra cash off of his talents if I could figure out how to do it without it coming off like indentured servitude. After five scrubbings of the balconies and two more of the windows, we can finally view the vistas without thinking that smog has permanently descended on South Florida. His back and his knees weren't getting him anywhere quickly but there is a satisfaction that comes from a job well-done that transcends even the most gruesome pain. You buying this crap? He complained for days. It's a guy thing. I tackled the bathrooms, the floors, the kitchen cabinets and countertops. I dusted and washed and wiped and mopped for four days. Four days! I kept wondering how long I would have had to clean if we had decided to gut the bathrooms too.

We moved the kitchenware back into cupboards, measured drawers for inserts that still needed to be purchased, and searched in vain for the spice bottles that I know I stored somewhere but were now playing hide and seek. We tested the oven and microwave and stared longingly at an empty refrigerator in the hopes that it would provide sustenance. We braved Publix to restock the pantry and to repurchase the spices that I'm convinced had jumped into the Intracoastal Waterway to escape the noise and dust. We made a trip to Whole Foods, another to Walmart, a third to CVS and we still weren't even close to replenishing our reserves. The tasks seemed daunting but by working together like the synchronized machine we have become after thirty-three years of marriage, we whipped the place back into shape.

We bought the drawer inserts and a spice rack and new spices to fill it. And just when they were all properly settled and alphabetized, the old spices miraculously jumped out of their hiding places, yelled "Surprise", and expected a warm reception and some space in their new digs. Of course, they did. Anybody need some turmeric? How about cumin? I have a shitload of cumin.

And then The Husband set about the final task of rehanging the artwork. Most of it was fairly straightforward. We had left the hooks in the walls for the paintings but the three-dimensional climbers were tricky. They required a deft hand and a light touch. Have you met The Husband?

And....he dropped and broke one. 

Before the fall

After the fall

You know that sunken seasick feeling you get in the pit of your stomach when your partner yells "Shit" from another room? I swear I wanted to hide in the bedroom until Chanukah.

No judgement. No anger. Just a pragmatic response to determining what the FUCK do we do now. Well, we bought the suckers from a South Florida artist so let's see if he has a remedy. He answered our panicked email within minutes. Really? Who does that? Send the afflicted climber back to him via FedEx with a prepaid return label and he would repair it. He didn't ask for money. Really? WHO DOES THAT? After spending three days trying to figure out which empty box to pack him in, The Husband did as instructed and shipped our damaged climber off to the nether regions of Miramar for surgery. He arrived that same day and within thirty-six hours was back in FedEx's hands for his return trip. Really?? WHO DOES THAT?? He is expected to be back on the wall later today. (I'll post a photo as an update.)

I know. I know. I still haven't explained the title of these posts. I promise you all that I am getting to it but really, what's a shaggy dog story without the matted and tangled shaggy hair.

Tune in tomorrow. Same Dawn time, same Dawn URL.

The Jewish/Irish Experience

I have often been fascinated by the shared experience that seems to exist between the immigrant Jew and the immigrant Irish. Obviously, there is the whole “stranger in a strange land” adventure that continually draws our two ethnicities in two intertwined circles upon our arrival on the North American shores but at its roots, there always seemed to be a simpatico response. It was like we empathized with each other on a much deeper level. While we have been touring Ireland, some of that bond has revealed itself. Both of our peoples have been shaken to their cores by a cataclysmic event that robbed us of our safety, our sustenance, our family bonds, and even threatened our very existence. For us Jews, The Holocaust stands apart as a period in our history from which we will never fully recover. For the Irish, there is a similar feeling about the Great Potato Famine of the 1840s.

Everything about the famine is still woven into the fabric of how the Irish see themselves as a people; how they view the world beyond their shores; how they look to replenish their native-born children; how they maintain their culture and heritage; and how they are now looking to future with the modernization of their economic and social growth. This is a damaged people, but one with resilience and fortitude. They take pride in their survival and refuse to allow the world to forget the injustices heaped upon them during that period where over one million souls perished from starvation and millions more fled in search of something better and didn’t always find it.

In the capital city of Dublin, those reminders are everywhere. We toured the Jeannie Johnston immigrant ship, one of the first to set sail for The United States and Canada with hundreds aboard. The Emigrant museum across the street is a fully interactive and multi-media experience that takes the guest through each and every wave of Irish emigration to all parts of the globe. (Did you know that former Israeli President Chaim Herzog has a grandparent from Ireland or that former US President Barack Obama’s great-grandmother was Irish?) The ability to maintain Irish culture and heritage so far from home has been nothing short of astounding and the number of people across the world who can trace some Irish ancestry numbers in the tens of millions.

Perhaps the most poignant memorial we encountered here in Dublin is an art installation that is right down on the banks of the river Liffey. A series of seven bronze statues, each depicting a starving Irish emigre, is shown getting ready to board a vessel bound for…wait for it…Toronto. Entitled Famine and created by artist Rowan Gillespie, shows the seven desperate, hunched over, and with terrified vacant expressions. There is the realization that they must board this boat, but a knowledge of all that they are leaving behind. They know that they will probably never see their homes or families again. The really cool part of this work is that there is a corresponding gathering of bronze figures in Ireland Park at the foot of Bathurst and Queen’s Quay in Toronto. There are only five statues in Canada as the artist wanted to diminish the set to account for the thirty percent lost during the journeys. A woman sculpted in Dublin appears pregnant in Toronto as many women became pregnant on their voyages. From Mr. Gillespie himself.

“Possibly the most dominant feature of the site are the huge grain silos which seem to symbolize the abundance of food in Canada, in contrast to the situation in Ireland. So there would be another figure of a man (they were mainly men who make the journey) in humble prayer and gratitude as he looks in almost disbelief at these symbols of plenty.”

I honestly never knew that these sculptures existed and that they are located not ten minutes from my home in Toronto. I am so terribly excited to visit them when we return.
The Irish experience has touched me deeply during our visit her in Dublin. I think I understand our bounds a bit better.

How to Love the Art While Loathing the Artist

I have been giving some thought over the past few months about the relationship the artist has to his/her art. Or more specifically, can we look at the art of people who have abhorrent views or have done abhorrent things with any sort of critical eye? In light of the myriad of sexual abuse allegations that have flooded forward lately from all walks of life and from all sides of the ideological spectrum, I have been asking myself if it is possible to love the art while loathing the artist.

When I was a kid, our family car was a Ford LTD station wagon. You know the type? Cream-coloured with faux paneling on the doors. A truly iconic '70s suburbia ride. While my grandfather was extraordinarily vocal in his opposition to ever purchasing a German-made automobile, there was never any resistance to the very American-made Ford my dad bought. There is no doubt in my mind that zero heeds were given by my family to founder Henry Ford's well-documented and prolific anti-semitic views that informed many of Hitler's own writings and still resonate with many hate-filled and bigoted people today. That Ford station wagon was simply the right car at the right time for our family and the disturbing history of its founding father never entered into the decision making.

In high school, I fell in love with the writings of T.S. Eliot. I still think that The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock is one of the most beautiful poems ever written. It wasn't until many years later that I was exposed to his rampant anti-Semitism and his unrepentant Holocaust affections. I am stuck in a quandary. Must I now view Prufrock through a different and far uglier lens? Does the same hold for The Merchant of Venice or anything Roald Dahl ever wrote? Will I be able to read Charlie and the Chocolate Factory to my grandchild knowing that its author probably would have hated the child it was being read to?

I offered this question on my Facebook page yesterday and the discussion was challenging and fascinating. I hope that my friends won't mind if I use a few of their thoughts.

One friend offered the following:

"Art is an extension of the artist-a magnifying glass put to some aspect of their interior world. We can't create in a vacuum - experiences colour every aspect of our lives. the positives and the negatives are inseparable parts of a whole. It is an uncomfortable experience - it creates dissonance. And it certainly makes us think about the work. It is provoking --- not a bad result for an artist."

I happen to agree with her point that art is often about making us uncomfortable. Moving past our comfort zones is what allows us to accept differing points of view and new experiences. It is the artist's job to make us think and to make us feel. Those feelings aren't always fluffy and happy. Sometimes they are ugly and challenging. But what happens when we discover an aspect of the artist that is continually reflected in the art? Woody Allen's seminal film Manhattan comes to mind.

Manhattan was the very first R-rated film I saw. My cousin who was already eighteen bought the tickets for us and I quietly snuck into the theatre. I remember thinking at the time that Mariel Hemingway's teenage Tracy was probably younger than I was and here was a forty-something and more-than lecherous Woody getting it on with a kid. It bothered me then and I was perplexed at the accolades that rained down on the movie. Neither Soon-Yi Previn nor Dylan Farrow was even a part of the conversation about Allen then, but I cannot look at this film using the same gravitas scale knowing now what I do about its director. And don't even get me started about Roman Polanski.

Another friend said this:

"I do believe that it is sometimes impossible to separate the artist from the art, depending on what the intention of the art is. E.g. Richard Wagner, the 19th century composer and consummate anti-Semite, deliberately used some of his music as anti-Jewish polemic. I do not listen to his music." 

She continued.

"On the other hand, it may be somewhat less problematic to enjoy art (visual, musical, etc.) that is not imbued with the ugliness of its creator's hateful behaviours. Woody Allen's movies come to mind, but I don't particularly want to put one cent into the pocket of haters or depraved people. I think we struggle so much with this because, over the centuries, some truly horrible people have created some truly remarkable art." 

The financial argument is an intriguing one. Enriching people who have knowingly and openly engaged in disgusting behaviour should be anathema. Has Mel Gibson ever done proper tshuvah (penance) for his anti-Semitism and his ugly treatment of women? And yet, time seems to have healed Hollywood's disdain for him. He was nominated for several Oscars last year and is currently starring in one of the hits of the holiday season. His reclamation seems complete, but what of his victims? I don't see million dollar paydays coming their way. Does the answer lie in the distance we have from the misdeeds? Will Kevin Spacey or Louis C.K. lay low enough for a few years and bounce back like Mel? Will Hollywood or the entertainment consumer afford them the opportunity because of their gifts? Can I look at a Picasso painting today with a different eye, even knowing what a shit he was to women because it all happened outside my gaze and I can in no way enrich him?

We are witnessing a revolution and in my view, it is long overdue. No longer are victims of abuse remaining silent and abusers are being called out for their behaviour. Powerful people in powerful places who have violated their positions for far too long are experiencing a reckoning. But as my lovely young cousin pointed out, what is happening now "feels weirdly specific who and what the outrage machine decides is ok or not ok." Bill Cosby will die a broken man but Johnny Depp is still out there grinding. But their art remains as tangible evidence of their talent and gifts and it cannot and should not vanish. Caravaggio was a miserable human being but his works are on display at the Louvre. Perhaps the answers to these complicated questions lie within what each of us is willing to tolerate. Where is my breaking point and how does it affect me in the here and now? Only each of us individually can answer that.

I believe that I need to hear a measure of true apology and true retribution. It can't be enough to simply say "I'm sorry without hesitation or reservation" but it is a good start. Has Woody or Roman or Mel ever tried even that much? Not to my recollection. But there needs to be more. Much more. There needs to be tangible action taken to alleviate the hurt and suffering and pain. I'm not certain what form that might take, but it certainly isn't shuffling off to rehab for a week and then back to business as usual. Maybe it comes in the form of mentoring programs for young victims who have been damaged by these people. Maybe it comes in other ways of giving back to the community. Maybe it comes with just staying out of the public eye.

I know that for me personally, there are certain individuals who will never be able to be redeemed. Their abusive behaviour is baked into their DNA and their art is forever lost to me. Some have been caught up in the tidal wave of shit hitting the fan and were negligent and behaved poorly once or twice. They may be worthy of salvaging if their future actions earn them that right and my trust.

Until then, as another friend said, "we struggle."

The Calm After the Storm

I had a fascinating conversation with a friend last week about a new project in which she is engaging. While it is still in its infancy and certainly not mine to discuss, it did open up a dialogue as to how we view art and more specifically, the artist in our very fractured world.

Since that dialogue, I have been extraordinarily fascinated not only by the process of artistic inspiration and creation but also by the role the audience plays in the methodology. What obligation does the artist owe her audience and by extension, what obligation does she owe herself?

Three separate experiences this week have tweaked my consciousness in this regard.

This past weekend The Husband and I embarked on our annual pilgrimage to The Las Olas Art Show. Small in stature compared to others we attend, this exposition tends to involve a more local artist colony with a few notable exceptions. Because of its size, there is a more intimate feel to the displays, the artists are less inundated with crowds, and they are far more interested in chatting with interested onlookers. It isn't at all unusual for us to see repeat vendors, some of which we have been fortunate enough to patronize before and to now check out their latest pieces. Sometimes, we are simply excited to reacquaint ourselves with artisans to whom we have given long looks in the past, but for some reason or other hadn't yet added to our collection. Such was the case on Sunday.

We had seen Daniel Lai's work before at previous shows. His use of recycled books and soft paper materials that he elegantly transforms into quiet and almost zen-like three-dimensional sculptures was an immediate magnet for me. There is quiet beauty in his work and I can almost imagine myself in his head as he transforms his journal thoughts into physical iterations. As we made our way through his small booth, we were fortunate enough to have an extended conversation with him. He was as soft-spoken as his work conveys, but there exists a powerful and obvious fierceness within him as he passionately described his pieces to us. His artist statement is telling.

I often write my experiences in a journal but find it inadequate to convey how I truly feel. As a result, I translate these paragraphs to a visual form that is three-dimensional, simplistic, and often relatable to many. My sculpture series is a three-dimensional journal that conveys snippets of my emotions and feelings toward life; the themes of this series often touch upon knowledge and contemplation. I call these sculptures "three-dimensional hieroglyphs of my experiences." Often times, the true meaning of text and words are just beneath that thin layer of their lexical meaning. In other words, we live in a metaphorical world. Three-dimensional representation of my experience transcends the boundary of words.

He had me at hello.

We purchased a small piece from his Reader series. and I am not exaggerating when I say that I have spent hours since just gazing and losing myself in its grace and peacefulness.

A small final anecdote about Daniel the artist. As we were finalizing our purchase, he asked us some very pointed questions about how we intended to transport the piece. Was it being shipped? Would we be taking it on an airplane? Where would it be in our car and how would we mount it? I promised him that I would take special care with it and then he said...and I will never forget the determination in his eyes as he said it..."Thank you. These are my babies, you know." While it was incredibly important for Daniel to share his work with a wider audience, he made it known to us that while we would be providing a new forever home for his work, it was still his and it was merely on loan to us. I suppose that is the true measure of art. We can enjoy it, revel in it, even purchase it...but we can never truly own it. That is the exclusive purvey of the artist.

So what does the artist owe her audience? Well, over the past ten days I have been privileged to join with a few thousand others in a new private group on Facebook called Harmony in Unison devoted to sharing live Jewish music concerts by the musician/songwriters themselves. The brainchild of Beth Schafer and Stacy Beyer, the idea is to provide a virtual stage for these musicians and to share songs, stories, and experiences across the magical platform of Facebook Live. While there have been a few initial glitches with copyrights and technical issues, the early evening interactive serenades have been nothing short of soul-reviving. The generosity of these artists to freely offer their time and their music to a most willing audience has been nothing short of jaw-dropping. These are people who make their living doing this work, and for them to provide it free of charge is a gift for which every single member of the audience is grateful. Their music has been a tonic for me in these tumultuous times. Over the past few years, I have distanced myself from much of it, but this music is a part of my soul and I am grateful for the opportunity to reconnect with it and with the community. These Jewish music artists inherently understand that their songs carry a spirit that can only be properly served by the continual sharing of it with a welcoming and participating audience. We are the necessary reflection of their prayers and we are the echoes of their soulful voices. If you are interested in joining Harmony in Unison, please add yourself to the group. I am happy to approve your request. You will be glad you did.

Finally, there is the debate about Meryl Streep. I will admit that I didn't see her speech live as I am averse to award shows in general and openly hostile to the Golden Globes in particular. (Subject for a different post.) That said, it was difficult to avoid the viral sensation that Ms. Streep became the following day (I caught her remarks in their entirety on YouTube) and the debate that she has re-ignited as to whether or not performers, sports stars, and other artists have a right to espouse contentious beliefs from their very public platforms.

I was impressed (as I usually am by Meryl Streep) with her poise, dignity, and passion. She never once mentioned the new president by name but she also never once hid her intentions. She was simply espousing a common belief that perhaps bullying and anger were not traits that the people needed nor wanted in their leaders and perhaps the country would be better served if these foibles were controlled. To suggest that the greatest actor of her generation, with more awards to her name than she probably has space to display them, is overrated is a fallacy at worst and folly at best. It's kind of like saying that Picasso designed colouring books. But, that really isn't the issue. Does the actress Meryl Streep pretend that the person Meryl Streep doesn't exist for the sake of the paying audience? Was it correct to yell at the Dixie Chicks to simply "Shut up and Sing" when they had the audacity, in the minds of some, to criticize George W. Bush?

There is no question that the performing artist takes a risk by speaking her mind publicly on contentious issues. Some people can and will look at her with a different lens and it will probably cost her a few fans. (Just ask the Chicks about their falling album sales and aborted concert tours. And fair or unfair, to this day, I can't watch any Mel Gibson movie.) I happen to think Ms. Streep was brave. She is the best of the best and she spoke her mind with a grace and passion that I believe is sorely lacking today. If the artist can't be true to herself, she cannot be true to her audience. She owes her audience her performance on the stage or the screen. She owes the truth of her convictions to herself.

Since the horrors of last Friday and the misery I have found myself surrounded by down here since the election, I have cocooned within the passion and beauty of these magnificent artists. My friend and I discussed the idea of spirals in her work as opposed to circles. I said to her that we tend to think of spirals as a downward trend but what if instead, we were to examine spirals as moving out from something rather than into the depths. Each one of the artistic experiences I had this week has made me believe that we can find joy in the misery and comfort in the tumult. There is hope somewhere in those spirals.

The Storm Before the Calm

Today's post is the first in a two-parter. The second half will follow later this week, but I felt the need to explain the genesis of part two in this introductory missive.

Our family has been coming down to the South Florida region for almost as long as I have walked the earth. This area plays prominently in my admittedly sepia-coloured childhood memories. When money was tight and family vacations were done on the cheap, it wasn't unusual for all of my parents to pile all of us kids into my mom's 70-something Ford station wagon and head south on I75. (My sister-in-law, keeper of the family archives, recently sent me several very embarrassing photos from that era. If you really need to see them, contact me offline.) As we grew older and my parents began wintering down here, visits with my kids became the norm, and now The Husband and I are fortunate enough to have our own winter misery-escape hatch in the North Miami area. In many ways, South Florida feels like a second home. Admittedly, there are some things about being here that I will never truly understand and will never fully reconcile, but I have been able to rationalize it as quirky variances in the Canadian/American dynamic. This is in no way America bashing, nor is it in any way a demonstration of our vaunted Canadian pomposity. It is simply a statement that while we live close to one another, we are different.

And...sad to say...my family has not been totally immune to the violence that seems to be more random here than at home. A dear friend of my parents was shot and killed as part of an aborted robbery while he parked his car at a neighbourhood restaurant. He had less than $50.00 cash in his wallet. His murderer was caught while shopping at Walmart with his bounty. A few years back, a Toronto couple, well-known in the Jewish community, was murdered while in their condo just down the street from us. Their killings remain unsolved.

And yet...we keep returning. The snowbird flight plan is deeply ingrained. Canadian winters are wretched and as we age, we tolerate them less well. And...we tend to view these incidents merely as random acts of violence.

But last Friday felt different. The killings at the Fort Lauderdale airport hit me right in my sweet spot.  It was oh so close and oh so personal. Every single day, we know people going through Terminal 2 at FLL. This is the terminal that services all of Air Canada's flights. Torontonians, Montrealers, and Ottawans fly in and out many times a day from this place. I have been there hundreds of times, both as a shuttle service and as a passenger. My children have stood in the exact spot where people died. A friend had exited the airport with her thirteen-year-old son a mere hour before the horror. My cousin's parents were in the upper concourse waiting for her aunt as the shots rang out. They are thankfully fine.

We count ourselves, all of us, amongst the fortunate. A different day, a different week, a different time.....

And while I am fully aware that these horrific events nauseatingly occur on a daily basis in the United States, I have never before experienced the kinship I felt Friday. I felt an even more intense loathing and disgust than I ever had before for those milquetoast politicians who offered thoughts and prayers on Twitter while having zero intention of dealing with a gun problem so cancerous and rampant that even those suffering from acute mental illness have access to them. I detected a bilious taste when I listened to loathsome shills for the NRA talk falsely about "good guys with guns." I vented on Facebook about the false stories about the murderer coming from Canada. I ridiculously felt a need to defend my country from the Pandora's box of absurdity that has been unleashed down here. And most of all, I was discomfited by how easily and how quickly people here moved on from the tragedy. The ordinariness of it was profoundly disturbing. There were questions about flights being delayed, luggage lost, traffic around the airport, and how all of it would impact the daily lives of citizens. I've been waiting for news of memorials. It hasn't come yet. I can tell you how to retrieve a lost cell phone, but not the location of a vigil. In short...I felt and still do feel miserably depressed. I am exhausted and I am sad. This place of interlude and respite has become like a dystopian teen novel, and the really really sad part of it all is that I see it getting worse, not better over the coming years.

Since Friday, I have needed to find a way to revive and renew. I have taken refuge in the arts. I have listened to music, watched some very fine films, read a terrific novel, and chatted with some amazing visual artists at a weekend show. There is healing in creativity and I have sought out the oasis.

There are days when it feels as though the world around us has simply imploded. How we cope with those times defines us and illuminates a path forward in a profoundly aberrant environment. It is my belief that we are living in an era that is deviant and extreme. But we can regain the upper hand on the chaos by reveling in the beauty and the imagination of our most creative souls. All of this will be further fleshed out in part two of this post.

Zichronam Livracha...May their memories always be for blessing.

My Fading Youth

It's been a tough few weeks for those of us of a certain age and generation. The recent and far too soon passings of Natalie Cole, David Bowie, actor extraordinaire Alan Rickman, and now Glenn Frey have left me reeling. It is a strange experience to mourn for individuals whom I have never personally met. And yet....there is such familiarity with these artists and the extensive bodies of work that they left behind, that I feel a chasm has opened in my personal history.

I have always been highly suspicious of public outpourings of grief for celebrities and in fact, I have been rather dismayed at the excessive and exaggerated public spectacles of mourning that seem to regularly occur in the internet age. But now it is starting to feel personal.

These artists weren't merely singers or performers. Their work made up the patchwork fabric and soundtrack of my youth. There were the road trips down to Indianapolis when we rolled down the windows and blasted The Eagles at high decibels. There was the smoothness and soulfulness of Natalie as she reminded us of romance and passion. There were the schmaltzy date nights curled up on the couch watching Mr Rickman's brilliance and marvelling at his ability to get me to cheer for his villains as ardently as I did for his leading men. And....there was Bowie. The iconoclast. The individual. The man who taught all of us freaks and geeks that differences are to be celebrated and never dismissed. They were all there for me during my awkward years, my formative times, my growing pains, my youth.

This fortnight has felt personal because it has felt like my childhood and adolescence are eroding and slowing evaporating into the ether. These recent deaths have brought my own aging and mortality into question. It is difficult to look in the rearview and realize that all of those important artistic touchstones have aged right along with me. We collectively mourn these artists not out of some macabre interest in the details of their deaths, but rather to celebrate and remember the gifts that they bestowed upon us. While nobody can lay claim to immortality, these gifted souls left behind work that will be enjoyed and debated about for years to come. 

My sadness metre is on overload this month. I have lost chunks of my history in less than a month. It is difficult for me to fathom that no new works will be forthcoming from this quartet and that is extremely painful. Nobody, least of all me, likes to come face to face with their own decline. And while there are many more artists for me to discover, and to enjoy, and to revel in, there is still a sense of melancholy in the knowledge that some things will never be the same.

Zichronam Livracha...May their memories always be for blessing.

I'm No Bob Ross

Have you started colouring yet?

There is an obsession afoot and it is taking over the free time and apparently saving the sanity of Boomers and GenXers everywhere.

The rise of adult colouring books and sheets like these has exploded on the scene like paint-pigmented water balloons, and many of my friends and acquaintances have sipped the Kool-Aid. They are budding Picassos, each and every one of them, armed with markers and coloured pencils, worrying whether it looks strange to hue an elephant chartreuse, and whether or not their styluses are bleeding through to the subsequent page, thus spoiling the garish pink lion on the flip side.They display their completed work as if they had an upcoming show in SoHo, and they talk of stress-relief as if they had just swallowed a handful of Xanax.

And me? Well, I sit forlornly on the sidelines, politely and jealously nodding my head.

"Gorgeous," I exclaim with a tone of envious derision. "Your colour palette is stunning."

"I never would have imagined an octopus in a fairy castle looking like that." (Who would?)

Why haven't I joined in the mania? Because I am simply incapable. I'm what my seventh grade art teacher used to call "Artistically Challenged." Those are the exact words he used on my report card, whereupon he gave me the only D I ever received in school. The grade was actually overly generous and more indicative of the fact that I managed to hand in every assignment on time no matter how shitty the final product. (The fact that I still have nightmares about this some forty years later should act as proof positive of my ingrained Type A sense of order.)

It isn't that I don't love and appreciate art. I do. I am an eager student and a budding connoisseur. I love to meander through galleries and shops, and I have as great an affinity for the local artist as I do for the established. I have spent hours dawdling in some of the great art museums of the world and I always leave rejuvenated and awestruck. But as much as I appreciate the skill and technique, I am one of those poor souls who can't even draw a stick-figure. Mine look like disjointed railroad tracks with boobs. I'm not talking mere piss-poor ability. I'm talking the extreme; a middle-aged woman who cannot, no matter how hard she tries and concentrates, colour within the lines. I have a colouring disability. An artistic affliction. I used to break out into a cold sweat and shake profusely at those kid-friendly restaurants where they'd give the boys crayons.

"Wouldn't you rather play Hangman?" I'd croak.

Of course Hangman involves stick figures, so the horror that I might be introducing my children to soft-core porn at an all-too early age was always in my thoughts.

I am the lonely soul who cannot colour. I have the artistic equivalent of tone-deafness. I cannot be taught and I cannot learn no matter how much I yearn to. I am like Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer. I can't join in your colouring games. Friends look at me with baffled expressions, disbelieving my protestations.

"Everyone can colour," they exclaim.

And then...once they view my demos, that familiar look of pity descends, followed by that inevitable sad, silent, knowing shake of the head that can only mean "Oh, I'm so very sorry for your troubles."

It really does stress me out to my core being. The idea that I might have to be alone with doodles and markers sends cold chills up my spine. You see, I require neatness and order. When my red marker skids outside of the definitions of the elephant's trunk, I actually get the dry heaves.

Relaxing?? Ha!! I'll take a glass of chardonnay and some Luther Vandross instead.

I accept that we've all been bestowed with strengths and weaknesses. I realize that I have been blessed with special and unique talents and gifts, gifts that few others possess. I'm not complaining at all. But, I am still incredibly envious of all of you who have found zen through colouring. It certainly beats many of the meditative remedies out there, and it won't land you in an orange jumpsuit. But please....stop pretending that it is the easiest thing in the world to do. There are some of us out there for which it is simply an ulcer in a pencil box.

The Subjectivity of Art

Okay, folks. Here we go.

I didn't like Lady Gaga's performance at the Oscars.

Deal with it.

I will acknowledge that maybe my initial posting was a bit harsh, but hey... give me a break. It was past 11:00pm, the show was grating on my nerves, and for many reasons best left unexplained, Gaga was trampling on an area of musical theatre which I hold sacred. But because of my exhausted state, the vast number of people who called me out on my opinion, and the fact that I am apparently in the slimmest of minorities on this subject, I went back and re-watched her performance. And you know what?

I still didn't like it and I am comfortable saying so.

I am also very happy that so many of you were so very passionate about it and that you felt it necessary to express your opinions.

Why? Because that is what art is supposed to do. It is supposed to spur conversation. And emotion. And spirit. And enthusiasm. And heat. And ardour. And fervour. And dissent.

Many years ago on a trip to Rome, The Husband and I found ourselves face to face with Michelangelo's La Pieta.

It occupies a place of enormous stature and honour inside The Vatican. There were throngs of people trying to get an up close and personal view of the great masterpiece. Many of them were brought to tears by its beauty and image.

 Me?

 I was underwhelmed.

There are many reasons for this reaction, not the least of which is that I have little feeling for the religious fervour that it so obviously invokes. But as a piece of art? It did little for me. I had the same experience upon my first in-person viewing of Mona Lisa. (Cute smile, pretty girl. But, meh!)

And guess what? That's ok. It is ok that these great works of art didn't speak to me the way they so obviously do to so many others. I am certain if I gave a list of the many artists that I consider geniuses in their fields, most of you would scoff at my choices. (Pssst...Much to the consternation of The Husband, I loathe Bob Dylan the singer. Bob Dylan the songwriter is a savant, but the singer....OY! I am certainly not on the side of the angels on that one either.) But, that is one of the best things about art. We are given the freedom of critical debate, and encouraged to engage in it.

There is irony in this particular conversation. I actually like Lady Gaga. I think that she is enormously talented and an incredibly brave performer. I just didn't enjoy her Oscar moment. But I have enjoyed the spirited debate accompanying it and through it, I certainly have enjoyed watching people become more passionate about the arts. It is a whole lot more invigorating and exciting to me than is politics.