Museum of Contemporary Art

Today, I was determined not to come home from work and plop in front of the television and waste my evening. I decided that weekdays don’t always need to feel like work days, so I treated myself to the Museum of Contemporary Art (it’s free on Tuesdays!). I literally sloshed there in the rain, periodically piecing my poor, battered umbrella back together as I went. I probably shouldn’t have risked the damp weather, considering I just spent the weekend in bed, trying to get well from a sore throat of some undefined nature, but I needed to break my routine. I’ve found that I’ve already carved a rut for myself, and I haven’t been exploring Chicago in all the ways I originally intended, and I don’t want to leave here someday, saying I should’ve done this or I should’ve done that. And I figure that the only way to cure loneliness (and a bit of a broken heart) is to get out and get comfortable with me again. So, the MCA was at the top of my to-do list.

Contemporary art and I have always had a bit of a love/hate relationship. Some of it will never be art to me (i.e., Duchamp’s famous “Fountain,” which I frowned at in the Tate Modern), and I feel like the descriptive placards alongside some of these exhibits are nothing but profound-sounding b.s. Let me qualify that I do not feel this way about all modern art, and actually enjoyed most of what I saw at the MCA. In fact, I found myself wishing there were more.

Two artists really stood out to me, today. Both altered my mood considerably, and caused me to react, visibly. Kara Walker’s large cut-outs looked like a playful series of silhouettes from far away. They almost looked as though they could be painted on a child’s bedroom walls. But then I looked closer, and few of the scenes remained playful or light-hearted. Most took on a deeply sexual, violent and disturbing nature. At first I blushed, then I felt angry. Walker brings to light (through her use of darkness) the perversions of the worst Antebellum stereotypes, sometimes in what I hope is gross exaggeration. I found myself alternately concerned, shocked, and angered as I paced the room. I felt very uncomfortable looking at those scenes--and I think that good art should be able to do that to you.

The second exhibit that stuck with me was Williaim Kentridge’s (charcoal?) drawings, which he converts into a short film. Almost animated, but not exactly. I was near tears watching it (okay, yes, I’ve been a tad more emotional lately than usual), with the unexpected violence, and the integration of the telephone, typewriter, etc. with the bod(ies) and the wounds. I really can’t quite describe it. You should go see it. And sit through the whole film. I read the description afterward, which I think was best because I had initial, guttural reactions without even knowing the specific subject matter. Now, I need to go back and watch it again, knowing to what it refers (to take it in more cerebrally.)

It was good to be there digesting the artwork alone. I like going to museums with friends, as long as they aren’t art snobs, but generally like to wander about at my own pace, lingering at the works that most resonate with me (which invariably aren’t the ones that resonate with my companions.) Alone, I feel freer to react without censoring myself. It was nice just to be there. To hate what I hated (an exhibit called “Plywood”) and love what I loved (the above-mentioned, and some drawings from the 70s whose artist’s name I already forgot) and not necessarily have a good explanation for why. Looking at art helps me get closer to grasping myself, which is always a good thing when you’re new and alone in a big city and trying to figure it all out.