day 17: an art piece

In order to find the specific picture I wanted to use for this post, I was forced-- FORCED, I tell you-- to look through my "i love art in paris" album on facebook, in which I posted pictures of lots of the art I saw in Paris. I have made two conclusions:

1. I didn't give Paris enough of a chance, and I bet it is really a whole lot better when you can be there with your sweetheart.
2. I love art and need to view it more frequently.

We are, at the moment, in the process of improving our home quite a bit. You know-- settling in, putting things on the wall, actually having useful furniture. We've begun a wall in our living room (living area, really, but what's the difference) which is to be dedicated to travel and foreign things. We've got lots of framed pictures of us (but not too many, because that's super annoying in a newlywed home). I'm dying to have framed artwork. My parents raised me in homes filled with lots of frames artwork. My uncle is an artist. My parents took me to the huge Monet exhibit at the Chicago Museum of Art when I was in fourth grade. We took our bridal/groomals at the Springville Art Museum. I like art.

This is my favorite.
Lest you be tricked into thinking I was alone while I traipsed around the Louvre, I wasn't. (Yes, I said traipsed in reference to being at the Louvre. It's a little bit of an exaggeration-- frankly, I took the place at a dead run because I couldn't handle the MASSES UPON MASSES UPON MASSES of people who were pushing and shoving and smelly, so I saw what I needed to see, had life-changing moments at the base of a handful of pieces, and then enjoyed a French bread pizza and Diet Coke in the cafe in the basement for 16E which was like $24 on the exchange. Does this make me an art unenthusiast? Does this make me a Europe unenthusiast?? No, this makes me unwilling to deal with tourists who don't know museum etiquette. Also, it made me hungry.) I'm just snappy with a camera and managed to capture this, in the breathtaking light of the window right there to the right. Can you handle it? I can't handle it. I mean, look.

I could die of happiness.

I'd go back to Paris to see this again. Also to see Versailles. Finally. But don't even get me started on that.

What's funny about art is that it's kind of subjective. I say "kind of" because there is some art that is not really subjectively beautiful. The David is beautiful. Cupid and Psyche is beautiful. Venus de Milo is beautiful. This is because they have a reputation for beauty, I think, and so even people who don't know why it's beautiful, know it's beautiful. Pieces become mainstream, and then they're mainstream for a few hundred years, and then they gain notoriety for being mainstream and beautiful, so other people take the Louvre at a dead run because they only want to see a few things they recognize, and don't stop to look at all the other lovely things that aren't familiar. Take this little buddy:

Do you even know who he is? I'm sorry to tell you, I don't even know who he is either. I saw him praying in a corner of the Musee d'Orsay and found him so very charming, but then didn't even write down his name. That was a mistake for me. It makes me feel like I don't appreciate him or his artist enough. Clearly I don't.

What is art, anyway? Is it sculpture? Because that's all I've been posting about just now. Obviously oils and watercolors and charcoal, etc etc etc. Art is film. Art is dance. Art is theatre. Art is literature and writing. Or it can be all those things, anyway. And all art is subjective, to some degree. It's beautiful or meaningful to people who find beauty and meaning in it, and means nothing to people who don't. Is mere opinion the basis for classifying something as "art"?

It's something I've been considering a lot lately because I've found all this ambition inside me again. For a long time I wanted to become a trained and successful actress who also writes a lot, and well. Ambition slipped for a while, but after the whole Urinetown thing, and with some interesting literary prospects, I'm finding that ambition is back within my grasp. I love to write, you guys. I love to write. I don't even know if I'm really any good at it, but I do love it.

I guess I might be a little bit good at it because I've recently been asked to contribute to a few blogs. One of them is Utah Theater Bloggers which is an up-and-coming site for reviews of theater in Utah. My friend Mel recommended me for some crazy reason, so I'll be attending Barefoot in the Park next week and posting a prompt (but well-thought) review. This is a real challenge for me since art is subjective, but now-- I'm going to be publicly vocal about it. It's a scary responsibility!

It's one thing to be like I love Cupid and Psyche, you guys, and it's quite another to take this piece of theater-- a piece of art, with real live people instead of marble ones-- and tell the world This was great. Or maybe, this wasn't so great... Cupid doesn't care if you don't think he's very beautiful because he is cold and fake (and is beautiful so your argument is not even valid [that is to say, sound]), but real live people who have to perform another ten shows do care if they're beautiful and meaningful. Theater is not performed without intention. The amount of work to produce a show is not sacrificed without hope in mind that someone may leave the theater without anything in hand or heart or head. Something should be taken away with art, or what's the purpose? Is it just art for art's sake-- theater for theater's sake--which still is art and theater for something's sake?

It's this funny, little intricate puzzle, where I feel like who am I? but also empowered because art is empowering and who am I to not have an opinion to share? I'm all kinds of insecure about my writing, though publicly anxious to be a Blog of Note, and given opportunities to write more. And then there's this even funnier intricacy of meta-art-- knowing that words on a page are art of some kind (or can be), and a well-written, literary review on a piece of art can then become a piece of art itself. Art being art talking about art performing art art art. It makes my brains hurt.

So I guess my point is,

Dear World,
I'm going to write a review about a play, and maybe I'll make it publicly known, and maybe I'm terrified about it. But I still want to be a Blog of Note, even if my opinion/review sucks.
Love, Emily

And also, that I love being involved in this terrifying and beautiful world where all I have to do is think about art and how terrifying and beautiful it is.