One of my favorite moments in a movie was a scene where a woman turned to a man as they were exiting a theater and said, “What do you think the significance of the Rolls Royce was?” The man, nodding thoughtfully, replied, “I think that represented his car.”
I think of that scene sometimes when I overhear people discussing movies or art and the conversations descend into pseudo-intellectual blatherskite. One such conversation in particular comes to mind. I remember I had ducked into the Smithsonian’s Museum of Modern Art to avoid a sudden rainstorm. I know almost nothing about modern art, but I figured I could at least enjoy being dry while not knowing anything about modern art. So I loitered. And, though my knowledge was limited, I did loiter past some names I recognized. There were a few Picassos…everyone knows Picasso…and I spotted at least one Miro. The Miro was a painting of a circus horse and I stared at it for ten minutes before I gave up trying to find anything resembling a circus or a horse. Then I saw a wall full of lips by Warhol. There were many lips. I’m pretty sure he liked lips. A little further, I happed upon some bronzes by Matisse and Henry Moore and remember thinking the ones by Matisse needed better skin care…some exfoliation and toner, perhaps. And, finally, I saw the painting that is the star of this recollection. It was a painting by Jackson Pollock.
I’m sure you know who Pollock was and how he worked his magic. He would lay a canvas flat on the floor and then drip, slop, sling, and sprinkle paint down on it…sometimes detritus from his cigarette would also sprinkle into the composition…and the result truly was magic because the art world responded. I have a theory that the magic worked something like this: one or more art experts, people who drop their jaws and speak without moving their tongues, decided that Pollock’s struggles with his inner demons of alcoholism and depression qualified him as a troubled genius, and that Pollock’s technique was just novel enough that it could only be inspired by eccentric genius. They, thus, proclaimed him and his work, well, genius. That they didn’t appreciate or understand the genius made no matter; they would pretend to appreciate and understand it. And because they liked it, so did the rest of the art world. Magic! Jackson Pollack was a hit.
When I first saw the painting, it was at the far end of a long, narrow room that looked to me more like a wide hallway. It sat on an easel to the right of the far exit, and as it was the only painting not hanging on the wall, it became the focal point of the room. The name of the painting was “The Tiger,” and I spent less time looking at it than I did the Miro to decide there wasn’t anything remotely resembling a tiger in it. Here, see for yourself…
Okay, maybe if I had taken a hit of acid and squinted my eyes till they bled, I could have spotted a tiger lurking in its depths, but I was drug free and sane enough to see it as nothing I or anyone else couldn’t do dripping, slopping, slinging, and sprinkling paint on a canvas. Let me prove my point. Look closely at the painting and ask yourself this question: Is it right side up?
Well?
You could sit that canvas on any of its four sides and it wouldn’t make an iota’s difference, am I right? Why? Well, because there isn’t any subject…there isn’t any tiger, not crouching nor lying nor standing on its pink little nose. Perhaps, and this is just my opinion, the painting is more aptly called “The Tiger Camouflaged by an Impenetrable Eyesore of Dripped, Slopped, Slung, and Sprinkled Paint.” But, as with beauty, art is in the eye of the beholder, and I stood there and eavesdropped as many a beholder walked up to praise The Tiger. What was fascinating to me was that none of them liked the painting until they’d approached close enough that they could read the plaque that told them it was a Jackson Pollock. Then they loved it. For thirty minutes, I stood there and listened to an endless litany of adjectives like powerful, awesome, stunning, deep, moving, and, yes, genius.
Sigh…
I was looking for something sharp to stab myself with when things started to look up. A middle-aged couple appeared in the far doorway, and they looked like they were packing loads of entertainment value. I got the feeling the husband would have much preferred to be gawking at the Air and Space exhibits. He sulked with disinterest by his wife’s side. She, on the other hand, was in her element. She was the only person who recognized the Pollock from the far end of the room and she made sure everyone within shouting distance knew it. I watched her drag her unimpressed husband up to the painting and tried my damndest to keep a straight face.
She began instructing her husband as to why it was such a great work of art; she was a fount of theories about how the painting channeled the spirit and form of a tiger. She pontificated with such melodramatic passion and grandiloquence that I half expected her to switch to French at any moment. It was torture. I had the overwhelming urge to snatch the canvas from its easel and beat her with it. Then I heard her ask her husband a question that stopped me cold. She said, “What do you think the green symbolizes?”
The scene from the movie flashed into my mind. I held my breath in anticipation. I silently rooted him on. Say it! Say it, damn you, say it! And I was so surprised I could have pissed myself when he actually did! He nodded thoughtfully and replied, “To me, dear, it just looks like green paint.”
Yes! I stifled a laugh…or I tried to, anyway. A loud snort escaped through my nose. Let me put it this way, it packed enough force that I needed a handkerchief. I willed myself invisible and slunk toward the exit. As I was leaving, the woman was leaning back and examining her husband as if she’d just discovered she was standing next to a huge pile of turds. He shrugged. At that moment, he was my hero. It wasn’t that the green couldn’t have represented something. Sure it could…it could represent purple if you want it to. The thing is it could just as validly represent something completely different to the next person. It’s the reason a song will mean different things to different people. Anyway, I think we can safely say that, in this case, the brave husband was right: the green in the Pollack painting represented nothing more than the color green. Her attempt to make that inscrutable muddle a tiger and the green mean something other than green was just mental masturbation.
I reached the street to find the sun shining and a rainbow arcing across the sky. The rain had cleansed the air and everything seemed in perfect focus. I looked around and took in all I could see. Every color Mr. Pollock had strewn across his canvas was there in that incredible scene and I wondered why I was the only one stopping to admire it. It certainly had more transcendental capacity to induce orgasmic ranting than the Pollock painting. Besides, there was even one cloud hovering overhead — a magnificent, towering cloud — that looked remarkably like a tiger.
[Just for fun: Can you name the movie where the scene described in paragraph one occurred?]
August 24, 2010 at 7:53 pm
Sometimes a blog is just a blog. At other times, it’s an occasion for much rejoicing. This one is the latter! Welcome to the blogosphere, Jon. We’re REALLY glad you’re here, if only because it gives us more opportunities to learn tidbits about your elusive self. MUAH.
August 25, 2010 at 3:41 pm
Seeing your comment on my blog is reason for me to rejoice. Thanks, Bethanne.
August 24, 2010 at 8:13 pm
Love it! the Maven said it best, as she frequently does. I believe this is going to be a quick favorite in the Twitterverse.
August 24, 2010 at 9:04 pm
Excellent. Made me LOL. 🙂
August 24, 2010 at 9:26 pm
OH NO!!!! WHAT CAN THIS MEAN? I have never understood this type of art. So, I am shocked to say I immediately saw a cat with long beautiful whiskers & even a body! Let the lashing begin.
ps I am under caffeine’s influence only. Really.
August 24, 2010 at 9:43 pm
Woo-hoo! Finally @blackaddler is available 24/7, not just those weird late hours on Twitter! Congratulations on the new blog. Very funny!
August 25, 2010 at 3:43 pm
And you are most welcome any time. I will have coffee and some disgustingly fattening pastries waiting for your visits.
August 24, 2010 at 10:26 pm
Finally… I don’t have to wait until we’re in our pajamas to enjoy you.
Glad you’re here!
Love that story!
August 27, 2010 at 12:39 pm
But the dress code is the same…footie pajamas are required in the blog room.
August 25, 2010 at 3:07 am
What a debut. Your vignette is rich in detail and so hilarious. Reminiscent of a scene in a vintage Woody Allen movie.
You are a rising star!
A fan.
August 25, 2010 at 3:45 pm
Blushing. As an admirer of Woody Allen’s work, that comment made my day.
August 25, 2010 at 4:41 am
Enjoyed the story. Keep them coming.
BTW. Can you send the link to the Megan Fox photos?
August 25, 2010 at 6:23 pm
I’m glad to see my fake promise of photos lured you to my blog. I’ll get you drunk enough to forget wanting to see the shots of Megan.
August 25, 2010 at 1:43 pm
Good luck! You’re off to an excellent start.
August 27, 2010 at 12:39 pm
Thanks! As long as it remains fun, I’ll keep doing it.
August 25, 2010 at 2:14 pm
That was terrific. No pressure, but you set the bar high with this one. Your next one will have to be equally outstanding or we will probably be let down. But remember, no pressure here. You could probably mail it in if you want to, but now you have a reputation to uphold.
Nice job, dude.
August 25, 2010 at 6:24 pm
Wow, this is new. I’ve never had a reputation to uphold before.
August 25, 2010 at 2:25 pm
Love it. Laughed out loud several times. Even turned off Friends to read you–a major sacrifice to my late-nite relaxing, considering it’s the only time I actually get my hands on the remote.
So clearly, you rate dude.
What’s the movie BTW? Any hints? My guess is A Beautiful Mind which I’m sure is wrong…but I had to take a stab at it.
August 25, 2010 at 6:16 pm
Thanks. Your blog has made me laugh many times, so I’m glad to be able to return the favor.
August 25, 2010 at 3:07 pm
My favourite modern art WTF moment was here in an LA…an installation that included film of a woman in a vintage gown with a paper machete goat’s head, twitching. Two dinks in there were sitting on the bench tripping on teh presumed awesome. I had to run outside to laugh. It was straight up like something from Kids In The Hall.
Most modern art is funny. The people who take it seriously are even funnier.
Huh, maybe I should write about the exhibit consisting of nothing but children ignoring lesbian porn…
August 25, 2010 at 3:47 pm
HA! Yes, I would like to read that.
August 25, 2010 at 3:09 pm
When Harry Met Sally? I can picture them doing this even if it was not in the movie. hmm.
August 25, 2010 at 3:19 pm
Nope. Not it. I was surprised that a couple of people got it right away. I figured it would be very tough. I will announce it after a while.
August 25, 2010 at 3:55 pm
I was surprised that a couple of people knew the name of the movie right away. I figured it would be tougher.
Here’s a hint, but I doubt it will help much: In the opening scene, William Zinsser plays a priest sitting on a railway car. He has no lines, he just sits there.
August 25, 2010 at 5:18 pm
What a way to start my day! You should have been blogging a long time ago — you’re a natural. One of my favorites already…
August 25, 2010 at 6:13 pm
Thanks! Comments like this make it all worthwhile. I think this blogging thing is going to be fun.
August 25, 2010 at 8:53 pm
Exactly the sort of blog-launching post I would have expected from you, Jonathan.
(I’ll leave it to you to decide whether that’s a compliment or not.)
August 27, 2010 at 12:37 pm
Really? This is what you expected? With every character in my story fully clothed? Without gratuitous references to my genitalia?
I must ponder whether or not this is a good thing.
August 26, 2010 at 4:45 pm
I love the curmudgeony, biting humor. Was just wondering the other day if there was something wrong with me not feeling anything looking at a Jackson Pollock wannabe. Well done! Looking forward to more.
BTW, Megan Fox won’t do anything for me. But if you mention Gemma Arteton, get ready for some mad clicks.
Cheers,
Jack
August 27, 2010 at 12:29 pm
Gemma who? I need to get out more. I will Google her and hide pics of her in my coming posts. You will have to visit the blog with religious devotion or you might miss them.
August 27, 2010 at 10:15 am
One brother (let’s call him “J”), possibly another (“M”), and I went to Hoving’s Impressionist Epoch exhibit at the National Gallery circa 1975.
A family of Miami Beach refugees was behind us in line. Momma in her flowered kerchief, Lincoln green toreador pants, white sunglasses, clear plastic purse, and hair color not found in nature — this was before such was in, very in, unless you count little-old-lady-blue or -pink — teetered on red plastic mules two sizes too small. Papa and two pre-teens were also dressed in Technicolor, though not as resplendent. The line was a Lawrence Welk retrospective, long and boring. To pass the time we discussed art in general. The devil got into us when we notice the MBRs were eavesdropping. We got louder. Others started listening. We strayed from reality, even that which passes for art criticism reality. By the time we got to the exhibit we were making up words, schools of painting, and artists. I sometimes wonder if anyone out there remembers that Renoir’s and Matisse’s negative spaces are indicative of the Umbral school.
August 27, 2010 at 11:37 am
Okay, this is a violation of my blog reply rules. You are not supposed to post replies funnier than the original post.
August 27, 2010 at 10:29 am
Oh, yeah. Stardust Memories.
August 27, 2010 at 11:46 am
Yep, that’s it. the scene at the beginning of the post was in the very last scene of Woody Allen’s Stardust Memories.
@amantedellapa got it immediately the other day and I was quite amazed. I thought it would be a toughy.
I mentioned that William Zinsser played the priest in the opening scene, and Daniel Palmer, who also figured out the name of the movie, mentioned that Sharon Stone played a small role somewhere in it as well.
August 27, 2010 at 2:03 pm
[…] but he has started a blog and it’s full of all the things I like about him. Go. Read . (I added his blog to the blogroll in case you want to find him […]
August 27, 2010 at 8:27 pm
I guess I should post this in a general comment. Cheree just named the movie correctly, though I should mention that @amantedellapa was the first to get it (she got it almost immediately, surprising me silly).
The scene described in the first paragraph occurred in Woody Allen’s Stardust Memories. As I mentioned up above in a hint, William Zinsser played the priest in the opening scene of the movie, and David Palmer pointed out to me that a very young Sharon Stone was also in the movie. I wonder if that was Sharon’s debut. I don’t know…maybe one of you do.
August 28, 2010 at 11:18 am
I have an addictive personality ~ you have now given me a new addiction. LOVE that you’ve started a blog. This is more fun then when you took me to the party on the back of the motorcycle. I hope this remains fun for you for a loooong time as I would already miss it if you left! Cool, baby! *Giant Squishy Hugs of Happiness that You’re here*
August 28, 2010 at 11:30 am
I will never forget the thrill of having you wrap your lovely arms around me and ride pillion on my bike. It was almost as nice as having you wrap your arms around my blog. Hang on tight…it could get scary.
August 29, 2010 at 10:36 am
Wow…so many comments on your first post, now that is talent…and a great group of friends :~)
and fabulous story full of thought
a billion ways to look
a billion ways to see
to touch, to live and be.
sprinkle them across the page
here and there and everywhere
for us all to share
August 29, 2010 at 10:52 am
I have the best friends in the world, that’s a fact.
August 31, 2010 at 5:01 pm
You seem like the kind of person I’d like to run around London’s galleries with. Full of common sense, psychic mind reading abilities, film quotes and a smidgen of blatherskite. Not sure that is actually a word but the fact that you use it means you are eligible to run around London with me. Loving the green moment! I think I shall have one now.
September 5, 2010 at 2:31 pm
It’s harder for me to eavesdrop on British accents, but I’ll give it a try. Do I have to wear tweed?
September 5, 2010 at 2:45 pm
I’ll make it easy for you. Im American, Chicago born and bred. Tweed is optional but will win you many points with the Fox Hunting Society. And people will think you are my grandfather.
September 9, 2010 at 1:01 pm
Well you said the fever broke two hours ago so here I am fingering my slightly grubby ticket stub. I’m the first in line to see the next post. Right? This IS the line, isn’t it? Oh phooey. I guess I have to go wait in the comment section of the next post which means Baba will have to get the time machine fixed. Hope you are all better 🙂
September 9, 2010 at 1:07 pm
Heh Heh…it should be up in the morning your time (if all goes well).