New Horizons at the Denver Art Museum

            Prior to May 5, 2012, every floor below the sixth (European Art) at the Denver Ar t Museum was irrelevant in my mind. Standing in the elevator, I’d give a casual glance at the floor map: Northwest Coast, American Indian, Pre-Colombian/ Spanish Colonial, Asian, Western American/ photography were clearly labeled, but I’d skip over them in stubborn indifference, pressing the button marked “6”. My tunnel vision for art led me to believe that  European Art was the epitome, the finish line. Renaissance to Modern equals the climax- postmodern and onward the resolution- and in by blithe condescension, I didn’t care to see the non-western exposition.

I can recollect the last time I was standing in the wacky, mountain-shaped building. It must have been one year ago a tleast- perhaps the spring of 2011. It was me, of course, who perused the hallways (of floor six only, mind you), but looking back it feels like a very dissimilar Brianna who did so. This was a Brianna pre-AP Art History class, a Brianna before her visits to the Louvre, Musee D’Orsay, Uffizi, and the Vatican. In other words, a completely different creature. I made haphazard attempts to research Bouguereau, Courbet, and others; my knowledge was limited. So I felt safe only with the art I was acquainted  with. I felt safe only on the sixth floor.

Summer 2011 I spent in Europe- a little tabula rasa surrounded by superb museums, exquisite monuments, and a culture that I’d only known  in movies and books. How could I fathom what a shock this would be- the airports, the hotels, and even more, the art? My shallow pool of artistic taste gave way to a bottomless ocean.

However, stubborn prejudices didn’t budge. Realism, learned technique, anatomical accuracy were the domineering lords which ruled over my bias on a piece of art- if it didn’t fit these standards it wasn’t worth my time. I judged myself as art savvy ; in reality I was philistine. My untrained eye was blind to the sensations of color, history, tone, composition, and conceptual worth. The elucidation from this predicament called for education. The following year I enrolled in Art History.

Opening my History of Art textbook for the first time, I sighed and huffed at how far back we were travelling in time. “Cave paintings, really? That isn’t art history, that’s art before relevant history was made”, I declared to Ms. Reiner. Looking back to that day, I’m embarrassed at my close-mindedness. Now it’s May, and we’ve covered more than a sufficient amount art “before history”, for me to get it through my thick skull how indubitably relevant it is.

Only now do I wholly understand the fervent dedication of tribal garb (ahem, second floor), the astounding antiquity of earthenware that dates to 1000 A.D. (that’s Pre-Colombian, third floor), the gossamer ornamentation of oriental pottery (um, fourth floor), and the multihued interpretation of Central America by W. P. Henderson (one floor up to the seventh).  Art that tells a story, art that utilizes color over line (or vice versa), art that challenges art- everything deserves, at the very least, consideration. Equipped with my new attitude, my visit to the incredibly diverse Denver Art Museum was the best I’ve ever had.

Jason's Hymnal

Popping the headphones in, I raised my eyebrows in expectation- a cue to start his three-minute song. Looking more at the computer than myself, he clicked once and the music crept into audibility.

Immediately, I reckoned the metallic vibrations to that of a lonely echo clinging to the walls of a concrete tunnel- and I closed my eyes to match its entrancing darkness. It was rhythmic, it was beautiful. It was the tribal hymn of rain, somehow translated to an acoustic guitar.

Then, the melody began to speak. The cadence, the pauses, the expression mirrored his voice, and the song was having a conversation. Feeling more like reading his journal than listening to a song he'd constructed, I wrapped my fingers around his arm as if to say, "I hear you."

Towards the end, there was deconstruction. High octave notes rang out, a frantic goodbye, screamed by the song itself.

Of course, I can only now describe it. And I feel stupid, because I just sat there, commenting here and there, chuckling thoughtfully, and saying "This is so pretty!". If only he knew that every night from now on it will sing me to sleep.

I'm the beholder of happiness- when my boyfriend is with me.

We walked the through cold wind last night

until he begged me to go home-

but I just smiled and replied,

“There’s a place I had in mind”

and we kept walking.

We walked the through cold wind last night

until we came to a lilac bush-

and I made him stop to smell them,

their sweetness seemed thousands of years old, like a dusty perfume,

and he was happy we stopped, but we kept walking.

We walked the through cold wind last night

until it started to drizzle-

I worried we’d have to go back,

but as the moisture left dew on our faces and hair,

he was content and so was I; we kept walking.

We walked the through cold wind last night

until I we reached a stream and a bridge

and I told him “We’re here.”

I jumped on the rail and we shared warm kisses in the cold

he picked me up and smiled, and we kept walking.

We walked the through cold wind last night

until we reached home again

and he told me “We’re here.”

We joined on the front porch swing

and I watched him watch the rain fall,

and I was the beholder of happiness.

bright day

positivity is something that I cannot lack

on such a beautiful,

courageous,

promising day.

given the chance, I would not go back

to the feelings,

anxiety,

and fear of yesterday.

Far Gone

I'm simply far,
Floating through my weakness.
I'm in a mental place,
But my thoughts make no trace.

You'd love to comprehend me-
As I complicate your world.
Forgive me; I'm just awkwardly odd.

Please understand,
I truly shouldn't care to try.
A person left alone,
left with comforts to die.

Please understand,
I truly shouldn't care to try.
You've mistaken me for conscious,
and now I'm forced to lie.

Jack Kerouac

"Great things are not accomplished by those who yield to trends and fads and popular opinion.”- Jack Kerouac

I know. I know, I know. You- along with all the greats- preach to us for love and compassion for the individual. You say, "Be yourself", "Have skeptisism", but what of it? For kindred souls, flying free and staking a claim is your nature. But me? I'm not your bird of healthy wings- I'm much less excited about this environment. Sure, my heart burns for greatness. The love of power and influence does not supercede my dreams. But WHAT OF IT? Though my chest smolders for adventure, it is doused by the difficulties of life. Trends and fads- they help me, though it seems despicable. What better than the direction popular opinion guides me on, to keep me sane? I want to be an individual, but perhaps freedom offers more loneliness than happiness for me.

Waste 2-28-12

Feeling old, feeling old,

I'm far to young-

but not as bold.

Growing, growing, growing tired.

Haven't reached my date,

but I have expired.

Youth is there and with me now

If I could light it up,

I may know how

Just let me shut my lips-

and open my eyes

I need not be wise,

but let me-

feel this way.

I can only hope

to waste just one day.