Sunday, I went to the National Art Gallery. It's massive. It feels like being in a hall of mirrors. One gallery leads you through halls with paintings to doors into another gallery with walls heavy with paintings.
Sometimes I can enjoy and appreciate art. Other times, I feel like this, "art, schmart." I'm no philistine, but art museums, particularly post modern art museums (e.g. The Pompidou Museum in Paris or what I crudely prefer to call Le Poopy Doo), puzzle me to no end. I can't even laugh at the absurdity of an installation that is basically paper trash spray painted neon green. I just get kind of mad and want to tell the artist, "You're not fooling me, buddy."
The National Art Gallery has little in the way of post modernism art. Thank, goodness! But, my eyes do get a little glazed after seeing the same portrait of similar looking ladies or babies.
I have picture examples of what I do like and dislike.
This is an example of a portrait that puts a little terror in me. Look at those dead, cold, black seeds for eyes in that doughy, rectangular face. What's lovely about that? Just gives me the icks. And I'm not one to say, "Oh, I can appreciate this because it icks me a little."
See, I do like paintings that tell a story. This is the "Jolly Flatboatsman," and he's dancing a little jig. I like it. There's something behind that dance.
Look at that devil-may-care, rakish face. You know his intentions aren't pure! That is much more entertaining that the dead eyes baby.
Then, we have our 14th century Spanish paintings that celebrate the Madonna and Jesus. I usually get excited about these at first. But my excitement fades as they all start to look the same--a bunch of gilded frames.
Overall, I had a nice time just wandering around the building. It's giant and all marble and granite with halls that you know would echo forever if you screamed. I needed to get out and get some fresh air and some culture, so it fit the bill.
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