Black Art, White Museums
That tends to be the ongoing balance of art; the intention of its creation versus the reality of its perception.
White walls surrounded me. As I made my way into the main area of the museum, the walls became pale, covered by paintings and portraits. Each varied in size. I continued with a deliberate slow pace, weaving in front of and behind tables where different artifacts stood. I took my time as I passed by each work of art. I gazed intentionally yet carefully and I read each respective excerpt. I encountered each piece of work and tried to make a connection between what the artist intended to create versus what his or her audience was supposed to retrieve. That tends to be the ongoing balance of art; the intention of its creation versus the reality of its perception.
The first exhibit that I passed was a tall and wide painting. On top of its white canvas lay several black, vertical lines, all of different heights and varying widths. From a distance, it looked like the lines were creating a hollow tunnel. As I zoomed in, the lines seemed to form columns of what looked like the inside of an elaborate architectural space. Perhaps, it was supposed to be a museum. While staring deeply into the painting, I tried to figure out if this was a tunnel, a museum, or just a bunch of lines. Before I could get deeper into my own analysis, I was distracted by indistinct words coming from the couple next to me. They approached the painting and stood behind me.
The woman was slender with soft gray hair. She wore circular glasses with gold rims. Her partner was also slender though not as small as her. He didn’t have quite as much gray as she did but he also wore glasses. His frames were square and made of tortoise shell. Their pale skin was covered head-to-toe in long trench coats. The woman wore a tan trench coat and her partner’s was black. She stepped closer to the painting and focused her eyes on the associated plaque next to the painting.
“It looks like this was one of his original works,” the woman whispered to her partner.
The man replied, “Yup, this was in his early days. He was more rebellious and vague.”
“He did become a bit more predictable, it seems,” the woman agreed with her partner.
He nodded.
They seemed just as stumped as I was. I guess that was the point, it was an abstract painting after all.
I moved on to the neighboring piece. It was a tall, ivory mannequin wearing what looked like a poofy, renaissance dress. The dress was all black. The top was a silk black, bustier that had sewn on, silk black stripes. The bottom was a long, black fluffy mesh skirt. The skirt had a long train that shadowed the circumference of the mannequin.
Several museum-goers filmed and photographed the mannequin. Murmurs of adoration ensued.
“I bet that took hours. Look how intricate the details are,” one woman said.
“Wow, look at that train. That’s how I want my wedding dress to look,” a young woman commented.
“Versace did a similar dress in the early 2000s,” one man said.
“It’s supposed to represent the dark ages of colonialism,” another man commented.
The dress was rather impressive. It seemed to be one of the most trendiest and well received pieces within the exhibit.
Behind the dress was a wall filled with framed vinyls. Most of the vinyls were from jazz artists. Others were from artists of R&B, soul and funk. There were a couple of hip hop vinyls that made it on the wall. Many of these artists were some that I had heard in my parent’s house. Others were artists that I had discovered on my own. I passed by the vinyls, one by one. I wasn’t sure what strung each of them together to make it into this exhibit. Was it a commentary of black music? Were all of the artists under the same record label? Were they inspiration for the painting and costume?
Others surrounding me marveled at all of the vinyls. They were familiar to me and ornamental for the others.
I continued to make my way around the museum, admiring piece by piece while others walked by me discussing their own interpretation of each work’s meaning.
As I reached the end of the exhibit, there was a gift store where you could purchase related merchandise or you could simply give a donation. I purchased a small tote bag to commemorate the event.
When collecting my money, the cashier told me that all sales were final.
I nodded in approval and proceeded to hand him my money.
Two middle aged women behind me were chatting, as the cashier packaged up my bag.
“I”m always so impressed by his work,” the woman said.
“I know, he’s so abstract, the second woman responded.
The cashier handed me my change, the tote bag, and the receipt.
“Here you go. Thanks for your purchase. You can leave a review by scanning the QR code on your receipt to tell others about the exhibit.”
“Thank you,” I said.
While walking away from the counter, I put my change in my purse and placed the tote bag over my shoulder.
I looked at the receipt as I was about to begin to leave my review. Under the QR code, in tiny black text it read, Thank you for your purchase. The Museum and its Foundation will donate 10% of the proceeds to the artists and their family.
My initial sense of fulfillment turned into an incredulous feeling as I walked away from the Museum. I wondered if the artist would be pleased that donations were collected or resentful to receive a donation.