The Confusing Part of Art

Ever since high school, I’ve had a rocky relationship with art. Every year or two, I’d find myself at an art museum, paying the entrance fee. Then, I’d speed through the exhibits, dodging clocks that melted into puddles and giant canvases covered in orange. I’d search for something safe, something familiar.

Finding a Rembrandt, I’d take refuge for a couple minutes—five if I was feeling artsy. Then, I’d sneak back to my car, hoping the docent at the exit wouldn’t recognize me. 

Photo courtesy of Eric Terrade via unsplash.com 

A couple months ago, I found myself in a similar situation–this time sipping on green tea and insecurity in a friend’s apartment. I’d been riveted by a photo of Kylee’s latest painting, The Pure Look of the Bishop, and had asked (on impulse) to see it in person.

Now that the three of us, The Bishop included, were face to face, I wasn’t sure what to say:

“So…what’s the story behind it?” I ask. The Bishop’s blue and green eyes lock in on me from his chair against the wall.

“Why don’t you tell me what you see first?” she says. 

The muscles between my ribs tighten. “Uh…I’m not very good at art…Why don’t…you walk me through your process?” 

“It actually helps me, as an artist, to hear what you see.”

I shift against the pillow at my side. ”Really?”

“Really.” 

Both Kylee and The Bishop seem unperturbed by my discomfort. 

“I…see an old man…he seems kind…there’s some red thing behind his head….he’s got one green eye and one blue.” 

It’s official. I’m an art idiot. 

“Is there a part of the painting that jumps out at you?” 

The Bishop surfs along my optic nerve, swimming across synapses until I feel him climbing into my occipital lobe.

“Maybe his green eye?

“Ok. Now, focus on that and ask him what he has to say to you?” 

“Out loud?” 

“Sure.” 

For the love. 

“What…do you have to say to me?” 

My words hang in the air, like droplets from a sneeze. 

The Bishop’s green eye rifles through my grey matter as if he’s flipping through every thought and action I’d ever logged, but he doesn’t flinch, he just keeps looking. I scratch my nose and reposition the pillow at my side. 

“I feel like…this might be totally wrong…but he’s gonna keep looking at me for as long as I let him—and see everything—but keep loving me anyways—regardless of what he sees.”

“Anything else?” 

“I liked his eyes at first, they felt welcoming—but the longer he looks at me the more uncomfortable I feel.” 

“Why?” 

I push my back against the cushions. 

“I’m not sure I want to be seen like that.”  

Kylee falls back against the couch. “Whoa,” she says.

Whoa is right. 

That afternoon, Kylee helped me see that I had overcomplicated art. Viewing The Bishop—or any other piece—isn’t like college biology, where success depends on mastering reams of new information, like how mitochondria have double membranes, their own DNA, and produce cyclic AMP. Art is simpler. 

Art invites us into a conversation—about life, what it means to be human, and waking up each morning in a fractured world. All we need to bring is our own experience and a dash of openness. Sure, a Masters in Fine Arts might make for a better conversation, but so does good listening.

If, like me, your conversations skills are a bit rusty, Kylee’s questions can help—whether you’re looking at a piece by da Vinci, Picasso, or Fisher (another friend of mine): 

1. What do I see? 

2. What do I hear? What is the piece telling me?

3. What do I feel looking at it? What about it makes me feel that way?

The longer we listen to a piece of art, the richer the conversation is going to be. Sure, we might experience some awkward pauses or bouts of insecurity, or leave with more questions than answers, but that’s to be expected when getting to know a stranger. 

The alternative is to avoid art, but that means missing out on some significant conversations that artists are having with our neighbors and coworkers—at museums, on Spotify, and in movie theaters—conversations about life, what means to be human, and waking up each morning in a fractured world. Those are conversations we need to be a part of, even if we dislike like the style, the sound, or some of the content.

Question: What’s your best (or worst) experience with art?