#21: Museos
If you sit at the edge of the mediateque at the ICA Boston, you get a fantastic view of the little boats on the waterfront. And you sort of feel like you’re floating in space. Last Thursday, I went there and grabbed a prompt card they had laying around. It asked me to reflect on the art I’d just seen. At first, I wasn’t thinking much of it but then the height, the bright light, the serenity of the space (or maybe the dumb fact that when I decide to participate, I do so fully) put me in a weird state. I had the realization that after my mom passed away, museums gained a new level of importance for me. Before her death, I’d visit them with friends out of curiosity and the need to feel a certain level of cultural awareness. But the year after she died, I wanted to be alone with my pet grief. When my apartment got old, I started going to museums and art exhibits — and sometimes I’d talk to her while doing it. Yes, grief is odd like that.
Anyway, another thing that spilled out onto the little prompt card is how museums now carry a kind of sacredness — one usually reserved for churches for people who like to go into them. I didn’t use to mind them, and I was used to putting up an ofrenda here and there. But things changed after I attended a service the week my mom died, and her name got added to the list of people mentioned. It was Christmas, and her sendoff there was nothing short of incredible. Instead of a solemn misa, there was a parranda navideña in full swing, a choir singing to cuatros y maracas, and people dancing. She loved the holiday, so the joy of it all felt like a true gift for her at the time. But ever since then my stomach turns at churches. I found that out unexpectedly when a wave of anxious goosebumps washed over me at one in Mexico. Maybe one day the sinking feeling will change but it hasn’t yet.
So, enter museums as the best place to go and simply be. The buildings are usually pristine, well-kept places and there are rules, you know: don’t touch the art. But other than that you’re free to roam. Once, at the Tate Modern in London, tears just fell out of my eyes while staring at the Rothkos. I had the dimly lit room to myself, but if anyone would’ve walked by, I would’ve felt zero shame for my bloated face. Because it is perfectly socially acceptable to be that moved by a work of art. That’s what things are there for. Sometimes you feel nothing, sometimes you feel a hell of a lot.
Getting around museums alone also offers a walking communion with others. You don’t necessarily have to interact, but you always can, and the gallery people are usually sweet if you chat them up. And I love museum cafés. They’re another good place to sit, be, write or stare at whatever. A good one will have thoughtfully crafted things to eat or an interesting drink. At the LACMA they put Tajin and lime along the boxed watermelon (others should get behind this). And then, of course, there’s the museum shop where you can pick up a cool knickknack for yourself or someone you like. At the MCA Denver, I bought a candle called Museum Smell that somehow nails the mineral scent of that place. And when I light it at home, I do so with intention, much like an offering, and I think of her.
