I have never been a big fan of modern art. Something about all of those misshapen figures and oddly formed compilations of "abstract" images never appealed to my aesthetic. I have been taught to consider more classical works as being worthy of admiration: Venus' pale form emerging from a shell, or pastel water lilies floating in a serene pond. However, when I let go of all preconceptions, I am able to take a trip down the halls of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, amazed at what the artists could do to me with their bizarre lines and garish colors. They free me from convention and probe deep within my subconscious, taking me on a journey as surreal as a dream. The stark white halls of the Contemporary Art wing are deathly quiet, and I am scared to break the spell.
I turn a corner, and suddenly, images jump off of the walls, off of their canvases, embracing me as one of them. Jackson Pollock's Male and Female act as gatekeepers to this dreamscape, serving as the guardians to a nightmarish yet serene m‚lange. I feel torn by a montage of personal scenes that communicate between my external and internal realities. A man next to me scratches his head in confusion while staring at a jumble of clay, and I stand transfixed in front of Joan Miro's Dog Barking at the Moon. His use of space, and a shockingly expressive moon, speak directly to something intangible and childlike buried deep within me.
Not many of the works are conventionally "beautiful," and some delve deep into my nightmare realm. Dali's visionary perversions attract me only to repel me. I stare with a mixture of fascination and disgust at a figure tearing itself apart. After viewing Soft Construction with Boiled Beans I am haunted. Then I become conscious of the enormous effect that the art is having on me, and my stomach convulses.
I tear myself away from Dali, and enter a room filled with the works of Marcel Duchamp. My revulsion quickly turns to confusion as I eye a piece of a bidet. Duchamp and his fans apparently saw art everywhere. I am looking pretty hard. Obeying rules was of no importance to the so-called Dada group; rather, the further they could go from sanity, the better. No one understood this better than Duchamp and Matisse. Pieces like Etant Donnes and Woman in Blue engage me by not sticking to norms or rules of representation.
The artists reach into their own subconsciousnesses, and are able to take me on a dream-like adventure in which nothing I see is quite how I think it should be--what happened to normality?! Later I filter out what I still consider ridiculous and recognize how successfully my own subconscious has been molested. It feels good.
And yet, even after considering all this, I have to admit that a lot of the works still give me a headache.
