Modern Art

Last month, while briefly back in the USA, my wife and I finally visited Chicago's Museum of Contemporary Art. Our expectations were not high, but we wanted to experience all of our city's museums and hopefully come away with a better appreciation for modern art. The experience was indeed educational - in fact, I learned more about art, and what makes for truly great art, than ever before - but not in the way I expected.

After strolling past some mobiles which showed mechanical aptitude if not aesthetic sophistication, we were treated to a series of charcoal sketches attempting to capture the sickness of post-apartheid South Africa. Then we entered the feature exhibit, "Protest Protest," which sucked out any warmth we hadn't already lost to the frigid winter wind. We came away feeling utterly depressed, as if we had just walked through a decaying neighborhood with no signs of life or renewal. I've visited some pretty tough neighborhoods, but this was the bleakest and angriest place I have seen.

Photography was actually not allowed, so I had to sneakily obtain photos while the security personnel were looking the other way. (There's something deliciously ironic about breaking the rules to take pictures of an exhibit devoted to protest and anarchy).

Here's an example of how modern art approaches difficult political questions:


The pamphlet in the lower left is the most gentle, filled with fuzzy images and similarly fuzzy words calling for peace. The folded-out piece standing in the upper right consists of photos of members of the Bush administration made to look like mug shots, with their "crimes" listed on the back. Behind it, barely visible in this photo, is a "visitor's guide to Baghdad" filled with dire images and over-the-top warnings about how terrible life is there, as well as sarcastic advice on how to experience violence and chaos. The open black-and-white spread above the colorful pamphlet shows rooms full of caskets and lists various facts (or perhaps claims) about the war in Iraq. To its right, in perhaps the lone nod to fairness, are a few of the "Iraq's Most Wanted" playing cards. (Confession: I own the whole deck). Another exhibit (not shown) included coloring books graphically depicting war violence and atrocities, as well as guides warning against the evils of the American military; yet another included a poorly drawn diagram contrasting the benefits of wealth-redistribution with the injustice of "capitalism."

This typified the entire exhibit - not just dark, but angry, utterly cynical, and consistently to the extreme left in its view. (So much for diversity). I appreciate well-reasoned arguments even when I disagree with the viewpoint, and I appreciate art that engages me emotionally and intellectually with difficult issues. But this was neither. The art on display was bereft of beauty and dehumanizing to its subject.

But this raises an important question: how can art engage a difficult and emotional issue such as war? As we sat in the museum's cafe, searching for answers, another image came to our minds. Not from an art museum, but from Chicago's Museum of Science and Industry.

In the exhibit housing a U-Boat captured during World War II, and dedicated to the contributions of the U.S. Merchant Marine, sits a depiction of two mariners adrift on a piece of scrap wood from a ship - apparently theirs - sinking in the background, with small pieces of wreckage burning in the water around them. I was immediately struck by the stark realism, the painstaking attention to detail, and the fundamental dignity with which the subjects were portrayed. The men's bodies were bruised and dirty, and their faces etched with a mixture of pain, sorrow, and grim determination to survive. Like all men at war, they have been thrown against their will into terrible circumstances, left only with the freedom to choose how to personally respond. Their uniforms recalled the pride and patriotism with which they enlisted for service, but their place on a makeshift life raft betrayed the knowledge that they may never see home again. It was clear that these men were paying a tremendous sacrifice, and the viewer of the exhibit was not only drawn into their world, but made to feel the price they paid. Instead of seeking to hit a political target, it humanized the men whom the war affected. That exhibit simultaneously expressed the horror and the heroism of war. It reminded me why we hate war, and also why we give medals to those who go and fight. It made a statement that speaks with equal profundity to the absolute pacificist and the gung-ho soldier, a statement so powerful that over than 2 years later the mere memory of it brings tears to my eyes.

That's what art is meant to be. Funny that we had to go to a science museum to find it.