When I met her, I fell in love with her smile. With her laugh, which she gave so free and loud, or soft and breathy in my ear. I'd fallen in love with her hands as they traced the air in front of my favorite paintings. With her fingertips as they br...
The modern art collection at the Minneapolis Institute of Art is in the very back corner of the third floor. It's very small, but it's always where I end up whenever I visit. For the last year, it's been at least once a week.
On this particular visit, I walked in the heavy glass front door and began climbing the giant concrete stairs. When you first walk in, there's a great little coffee shop that also sells wine and beer. I'm always slightly disappointed by that; there are signs right by the stairs that shout, "NO FOOD OR DRINK BEYOND THIS POINT." It makes the bar seem like a tease to me every time.
On the second floor, I pass old people standing too close to renaissance paintings that all look the same, two goth girls holding hands in front of an African mask. By the time I get to the third floor, I'm winded and my legs feel like lead. Tonight I'd worn the same heavy platform Docs I always told myself not to wear, and I already regretted it. But I head all the way to the back of the museum, and when I find what I'm looking for, it's worth it.
The modern arts section is my favorite. I always pass through the impressionist section first and see all the greats. There's a Van Gogh. A pastel Monet that makes my chest ache. A bronze girl lounging in a basin crafted by none other than the incredible Degas. But it's the darkness of the modern contemporary pieces that really hurt my soul.
In the farthest back room, my favorite pieces are hung close to one another. I always pause in front of Salvador Dali's Portrait of Juan de Pareja. It's dark; jagged pieces of metal and nails stick out everywhere, making you feel like they're real and not just paint. It always has the ability to make me feel uncomfortable, no matter how many times I've stood and examined it. I picked out Juan de Pareja's face as he paints himself, and shiver. Not only at the darkness, but at Dali's ability to pour his disturbed mind out on a canvas and help the rest of us access our own.
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I have always been the type of person that is drawn to the disturbed. To me, darkness is comforting. I have found the most solace in my life in art that explores our deepest pain, especially when it involves music or fine arts. So, of course, viewing art alone on a Thursday night, I had headphones in. Usually, I try to pick a quiet, emotional album. A few weeks ago, I created an "art museum" playlist with all my favorite sad songs. But tonight, I picked a beautiful album by Olivia Barton.
The playlist would hurt too much; one of my favorite artists, Billie Eilish, was playing tomorrow night at the arena downtown, and I hadn't managed to get tickets to see her. It had been a rough year financially, and I just couldn't justify the cash. The playlist included Billie almost every other song, as she had an endless supply of moody music perfect for viewing moody art. Every time I miss a live performance of a beloved musician, it feels like a breakup. The museum visit tonight felt like a great distraction.
After a while, I made my way over to the bench in front of my very favorite painting in the whole museum. Francis Bacon's Study for Portrait VI is certainly twisted. It's one in a series of a man going mad. Not exactly comforting to many, but for me, I loved to sit here and take it all in. The song Baby Pictures came on, and as the quiet, sad chords swelled in my chest, I followed the gold lines standing out on the dark painting. His face, so close to melting into madness, looked demonic. The ghostly smudge of his face was my focus, and I tipped my head as I zoned out, staring at the chaos.
