Paintings of Imperfection

So my internship didn't REALLY start today, it starts tomorrow. I was, however, obligated to attend an MTV orientation today. Between paperwork, video montages, and lets not forget those blood binding ice breakers I was ready to be a cog in their flawless piece of creative machinery. By 11:40 the fusing was finished, and I was off; free until tomorrow, my real first day.

But today was far from over. I wouldn't let it be. I let yesterday's sun slip away, and I had every determination to not let that happen again. So what was I to do? Where was I to go? The MET. It's been 21 years and never have I been to this place I knew I'd love. Kind of frustrating in retrospect. Anyway, I got there by noon and didn't leave till they kicked me out at 5:15. It's tough being in such a massive museum at times. You're forced to pass by certain pieces of art and dismiss them, not because they're not equally impressive, but because there genuinely wouldn't be enough time to stop and examine each and every fixture. I find this particularly hard to do with paintings. Monet, Van Goh, Pollock, Picasso, some of the world's most renowned artist's work hung effortlessly for the public to see. Yet even those works of the lesser known painters and sculptors were hard to look away from.

I was reminded of the movie "An American in Paris." It's a Gene Kelly flick from the 50s I believe. He plays an American turned roadside artist in the foothills of Montmarte. There's a scene when he talks about selling one of his paintings. It's a good thing, selling a painting, it's how he makes a living, puts food in his mouth. But different then a musician, when an artist sells his work, he must say goodbye. Once a painting is gone, it's gone. Records and tapes and sound files allow for music and movies to capture their creation. But not is the case for an artist and his paintings. Those exact strokes cannot be replayed, the moment not relived. It was chilling at times to think about. This was the actual canvas Monet spilled his scene of water lilies onto. This was the paint splattered tarp that Pollock went crazy on. These were more than just paintings, they were experiences. And the evidence was as real as the clumps of oil and loose strokes of paint that suggested a man's imperfection.

I was exhausted by the end of the day. Almost relieved that I was forced to leave, because I can never convince myself that I've seen enough. Do we ever see enough? I start my internship this morning. Off I go...