Yesterday was “museum” day. Sally and I slept in–we’ve been doing a lot of that lately–and then took a cab to the first of two museums we planned to visit: Funcacio Joan Miro. (There should be accent marks in that name, but my keyboard doesn’t have them.)
The day was beautiful, and there was a long line to wait in. We enjoyed watching people loll on the lawn, beyond the ‘keep off the grass’ sign, while we stood around. Once inside, we bought our tickets and headed straight for the first exhibit, bearing the title, “Murals”.
OK. Call me unsophisticated, call me just plain ignorant, but I cannot for the life of me understand why some of this stuff is called “art”. Two of the murals were enormous blackboards, for instance, and the artist had drawn little flying saucers and other spacey things on one, and the second was composed of a brainstorming cluster-type diagram of all the things he was afraid of. All this was done in white chalk, and resembles nothing so much as a first grade art project.
The second museum, Museu d’Art Contemporari, I believe it’s called, boasted an all-black canvas with undertones of blue. People stood around, looking intellectual as they were contemplating the meaning. Hint: the Emperor is not wearing new clothes. He is, on the contrary, bare-a** naked.
I’m trying not to be such a rube, I really am. Picture me contemplating the meaning of black with blue undertones…