Calisthenics

I have always been guilty of judging ‘Art’ as a futile attempt of an idler venting his sporadic inspiration as evidence that he is not dead weight on society. Artists and their connoisseurs I believed were feeble minded with limited logical reasoning capabilities. Showing off and always hungry for praises these people roam in search of like minded comrades. The fact that they are always aloof, dressed weirdly, sat in dark corners of coffee shops with a cocky attitude made them repulsive. The men behaved as women and the women scarce as they were indulged in their own masculinity matching ring for ring for every breath of tobacco inhaled.

With this thought, I stood in front of the Rijks Museum in Amsterdam last weekend contemplating if I could better utilize the 2 hrs and 10 Euros elsewhere instead of investing here. I thought I am too much of a real world man to waste time and money in such activities. There were three reasons that made me take the plunge. Firstly, what if I was off track about art and artists? Secondly, the very fact that I have never walked this path, absolutely new territory for me and thirdly, it was freezing my balls cold outside.

My partner tagged along not particularly happy with the entry fee. He let a sigh when I told him that the head phones for information would cost an additional four Euros. Five minutes into the first gallery and I was already regretting it. There was a large painting where people crowded and whispered among themselves in false admiration. I decided to keep walking and make it through the ordeal. To make things easier, I put on the head phones and punched in the number next to the painting.

She had the most beautiful voice, the story teller, who told me the painters name (that I had never heard off before) and the story of how after a hard fought battle in the high seas between the Dutch and Spanish navies the commander of the victorious Dutch Navy celebrated with his lieutenants. I now knew that I could ride this wave listening to stories and was glad that I got myself the head phone.

Not all paintings or artifacts had numbers next to it, so I had to painstakingly read through the description next to them arching taller than the shorter ones who thought it was their birthright to stand in front. Every painting had a story, sometimes more than one story and I must say it was visually appealing and I felt a sense of admiration creep in. I brushed it aside forgiving myself for false hopes. There was a painting of people making merry, drinking, flirting with women and playing with pets one of which was a chained monkey. It seemed to suggest that indulgence was tolerated or even encouraged as long as desire was not let loose.

The were other messages of virtue and vice and soon I found myself punching the same button over twice in front of some paintings. It dawned on me that it was not the recording I wished to hear again, neither was it the voice of the storyteller. Some of the paintings cause a fixation that reaches out to within you. When I saw Rembrandt’s self portrait it had a hypnotizing effect that leaves behind all trace of space and time and I stared into it as if to communicate with the master. It felt like the effect of the first pint of beer I had. The first revelation of intoxication. The only difference here was that there was no way of replicating it. I felt, I found something here.

The eye chooses what it wiches to sees and the ear what it wants to hear. I heard the stories but now I was more interested on how was such magic created. The storyteller exposed to me the science of painting. The principles of light and shadow, the approach to infinity, the rules of motion and inertia, the subtleties of emotion and so on. These paintings were not the result of a sporadic inspiration which is articulated momentarily. These painting took months of research on requirement and months to design. The details needed to be practiced till it becomes second nature before execution on the real thing. This was no more art, this was science. I was sure I have found something here.

It was dark when I got out of the Museum; I had spent more than 4 hours in there. I did find something but I had more questions than answers. Had I been wrong all along? Is it the general effect ones profession has on oneself? Is that why hard rock music stars needed long hair where ever it grows, piercing in the most remote corners and had to have marijuana for breakfast, coke for lunch and LCD for dinner? Why is the painting credited by the painter than by what is painted or who commissioned the painting? How am I going to be remembered 400 years from now?

What I did find is that I am an artist myself and this note is my product. Though I don’t wear weird clothes (I don’t think I wear), I still search for like minded individuals like yourselves to consume my product. But why am I creating this product? It’s certainly just not for your consumption. The objective of this product is to seek appreciation and admiration. The hunger for praise which I ridiculed in the post earlier is the very reason for the existence of this article. We seek this both from ourselves and from others. The ratio of this however I am not aware of.

P.S.: This article is named Calisthenics, for lack of an appropriate name. The Objective of Art seemed equally cliche' but boring. It’s probably my hope that the reader derives that it has been an emotional and mental exercise.