Dispatches From Slow Art Day

What can we gain from looking closer?

Joan Mitchell’s Wood, Wind, No Tuba

There are a handful of notebooks I’ve held onto for years, just waiting for the right moment. One of these notebooks features an illustration of a sweet little dog sitting on a palette, holding a paintbrush in his mouth. I moved so many times, always packing this notebook up again and never writing in it. What was I waiting for?

Slow Art Day turned out to be the perfect answer. Last year I learned that the average museum-goer spends just 15 to 30 seconds looking at an individual work of art in a museum. I liked the idea of a day devoted to closer observation and marked my calendar.

While I wasn’t able to attend an “official” Slow Art event, any visit can be a chance for a museum-goer to devote a bit more time to the art that calls to them. This was how I came to spend one very restorative Saturday afternoon wandering around a favorite museum of mine, jotting down notes while listening to Brian Eno on my headphones. (Entry was free with a pass from my local library!)

My notebook became a tangible record of that afternoon: what I saw, what I thought, what I listened to. Below you’ll find a selection of my notes and a few of my favorite songs from the day!

1:30. So much has come before us and so much will come after. We’re here for just a brief moment. These halls contain the passage of centuries, existing as a container for countless hours of so many artists’ lives. A museum slots us into our place in time.

1:37. An artist affixed rope to this piece, then removed it. Though the object that made the imprint is gone, I can see the texture it left behind. I’m interested in this idea that what you take away can be as meaningful as what you add. (In life, too — marked by the paths we did not take.)

2:15. Each work of art represents a series of choices made by its creator. By choosing to focus on one thing, you’re ruling out many other subjects. This idea of elimination can be an intimidating prospect for the artist (or the viewer, for that matter). But ultimately, I think art benefits from specificity. I would rather spend time engaging with a work that successfully zeroed in on one thing as opposed to a work that tried to encompass too much and failed.

2:26. Art holds time.

2:39. I like the idea of art as a traceable path — one that tells the story of the artist’s journey. The finished work retains the seed of the original idea, even if it’s evolved tremendously since inception. Every piece of art holds time in its own way, allowing the viewer to access a series of moments from the artist’s life. This is maybe what I’m most interested in: art as story.

2:56. Making these notes is also a way of holding time.

2:59. I see something on this canvas that my brain initially identifies as a mistake: dots of pink paint marring an otherwise pristine stripe of white. Something I’ve always liked about abstract art is that it can be difficult to discern what was an accident and what was intentional, because the work isn’t attempting realism. But now that I think about it, that just demonstrates a different kind of real.

3:02. I like the idea of being a detective investigating life. I guess that would make these my case notes, and art the clues.

3:04. Another maybe-mistake on another canvas reminds me exactly why I have such fondness for human-made art. These maybe-mistakes fuel the mystery of artistic intention, offering the viewer a space to wonder. Maybe-mistakes aren’t always visually pleasant or statistically probable; rather, they’re an undeniable mark of the creator’s humanity. The kinds of things that a machine might erase, or throw out entirely: splotches and fractures, misshapen circles and curved lines. I want to catalog them all.

3:22. I’m watching another woman recreate the painting before her in a pocket sketchbook. It would be interesting to return some other weekend, this time to observe the people observing the art. To turn my attention to the viewer.

3:40. Listening to contemporary music while looking at a 19th century oil painting is quite the juxtaposition. Today we make art with technology they never could have imagined then. Yet the impulse to create still connects us. That impulse isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.

4:12. I’ve come to a stop before this particular painting-girl many times over the years. She’s part of the museum’s permanent collection. Every time she looks at me with that same serious gaze, staring out from her own small rectangle of the past. I’m so grateful for the ability to return to works of art over time, as I learn and grow and change.

4:31. Above all I’m struck by the ways art affects movement. A stationary object hanging on the wall can have a physical impact. I double back; I move closer; I come to a stop. And just as much as I enjoy observing the art itself, I love looking around the room to notice what makes others linger.

Look twice.

If you’re new here, welcome!

Some of y’all found me through my latest piece in Bright Wall/Dark Room: an essay that explores questions about technology and the self through text messages and the film Personal Shopper. (One of my favorite ghost stories!) And some of y’all found me here because I’m gearing up to delete my Facebook and invited you to join me in this little corner of the internet. However you came to Microfascination, I’m so happy you’re here!

If you enjoyed today’s issue, you might also like the one I wrote a year ago about listening to a brand-new album in a pitch-dark movie theater with nothing on the screen:

Lessons in Listening

As a final note, my birthday was this month! I would love it if anyone who reads this celebrated by sending a little note or email to a creator who changed your life for the better.

Cheers, y’all; I’ll see you again in May!