The Art Critic

Our Thanksgiving was uncharacteristically quiet this year, and truth be told, it was kinda nice. I spent the long weekend at home, hanging with my family, sharing meals with friends, and even watching the kid play in his first high school basketball game. It was a good time.

By Sunday, I was ready to get out and do something. So when Edra called with a plan, I jumped (and I dragged Mark along with us).

After a long, unhurried lunch (bottomless mimosas, yuuuuuum!), we headed over to the Museum of Latin American Art. Edra and I were excited because it's free admission on Sundays; Mark, however, was the exact opposite of excited. (This was not his first foray into fine art.)

As we signed in to the museum, the lady at the desk pointed us toward a small theatre. It was showing a brief film about Esterio Segura, a Cuban artist whose work was currently on display. 

We patiently watched the film for about 10 minutes, waiting for it to loop back to the beginning as promised, so we could figure out what was really going on. Mark spent his time sighing loudly and fidgeting, stopping only when the desk lady announced she'd loaded the wrong film. He waited until she set up the correct movie, then resumed his sighing (ah, teenagers).

I found the movie and the artist really interesting. He explained his love of airplanes, which started as a young child, and his love of art, and how he married the two together. The exhibit, Goodbye My Love, featured shiny red fiberglass heart-planes, which he angled upwards, as though taking off. The planes were really cool.

Mark, again, was not impressed. He followed me closely, studying the Pinocchio sculptures (there were many) and the mounted paintings on the wall. But he was most interested in a wild kid running through the room, curiously touching the sculptures and giving the security guard small heart attacks. 

Mark and I wandered into a second room. We stared at a giant web of clear strings attached to the ceiling and floor, a neon strand of red running through the middle. 

"Spiderman was here," I whispered, and Mark finally smiled.

We walked over to a table with lacquered books on it, their pages gutted in the shape of cogs. The cogs were intertwined, and suddenly, there was Wild Child again, moving the cogs like they were puzzle pieces, while her mom leaned on the table and watched a video playing on the wall.

"Wow, wonder what they're making?" Mark asked, sarcastically. "Wait, let me see...a page...some binding...is it? Maybe? Yep, it's a book! They're printing books!" 

He raised his arms triumphantly, which stopped Wild Child, but only momentarily. She grabbed for the books, and then the security guard chimed in.

"Ma'am, your child!" he called, pointing at the girl with the art work in her hands. "And ma'am, please don't lean on the art work."

"Sorry!" she said, moving away. She called to Wild Child, and they left.

Once the only interesting thing in the room left, Mark resumed his drawn-out sighs.

"This is so booooooring," he whined, staring at a cage full of paper airplanes. 

"Well, sometimes the work speaks to you," I explained, "And sometimes, it doesn't."

He rolled his eyes at me. 

"Go find something that does speak to you then," I whispered.

We walked into the next room, which featured giant sculptures on the wall of a human couple, a couple of cars, and an arrow and heart--each pair seemingly engaged in a compromising position. (Yeah, it was a little weird.) 

"Please tell me that doesn't speak to you," I said. Mark, horrified, gave me a disgusted look that teenagers worldwide have perfected. 

"Oh my God," he whined, rolling his eyes and backing away from me as quickly as he could. He couldn't get out of that room fast enough.

I found him at the next exhibit. He was staring at this piece.

"You learning anything cool?" I asked, nodding toward a docent speaking to a group of guests.

"I think he's just making stuff up," Mark answered. Seriously, he's one tough critic.

I wandered a bit more, eventually ending up where the docent had been. I stared at the painting for a moment, then did a double-take and asked Mark, "Are those...?"

He nodded. 

"And are they...?"

"Yep," he said, smiling. "They are." 

He looked closely at the title card, confirming what we were seeing. "It's called 'Frogs Playing Tennis.'"

And that's when I almost lost it. Because hey, honestly, I'm just a 14-year-old kid inside, too, especially when it comes to art featuring frogs...playing tennis! 

"Now that," I said, pointing to the picture. "THAT speaks to me!" 

And we both erupted into totally inappropriate and irreverent giggles, immediately ending our cultural experience. 

"Let's go," I told my own Wild Child, ending his misery. He did not argue.

And so ended another failed attempt at schooling my kid in something other than sports. It's pretty obvious he's not a fan of art or culture, but that hasn't stopped me from trying. 

Even if his favorite item in the museum was something he found in the gift store...a book about the Lucha Libre wrestlers.

"Now that's cool!" he said, nudging me to buy it for him. He said he'd also settle for a Frieda Kahlo t-shirt, because dang, she has the best unibrow ever.

I'm not sure I should even keep trying at this point...