Stationary Stories

Do you ever see a story when there isn’t one there? I do. More often than I should, probably. But it becomes increasingly easier to day-dream up these fantastical situations when I’m in a place filled with soul, ideas, and creativity. So, taking a fieldtrip to the Baltimore Museum of Art truly set my mind ablaze.

It’s not like I haven’t been to that museum before, or any museum for that matter, but it was my first time really exploring an art museum in solitude. Professor Nyland gave instructions to write on what we found to be interesting and not skimp on any of the details, so I wasn’t exactly walking aimlessly. But, not feeling like I had to keep up with anyone and being able to stop and admire any piece that I liked was a relatively new experience. As I walked, I heard another patron say, “Jeremy’s dad would always quote, ‘Food wins the heart, but art wins the soul.’” I don’t know Jeremy or his father, but this quote rang in my mind as I took in the space around me.

I began my journey by heading towards the American art section, as it was the first gallery of my right, and I was drawn in by a beautiful painting of the Arch-Angel Michael defeating Lucifer in combat. The image is popular and a common sight for those who grew up around Catholics, the triumph of good vs. evil. But this particular painting was a little different. Michael’s breast plate is not made of silver/steel and shaped to his chest like a medieval knight. Rather it looks to be made from golden light or silk emanating from the collar and top of his skirt. It forms a skin-tight barrier between him and Lucifer’s tail but was transparent to the six pack beneath. In true Renaissance fashion both Lucifer and Michael’s muscular anatomy are painted in intense detail. And rather than a sword, Michael wields a staff of light, made from the same material as his armor, and looks to be about to smite Lucifer into the hell scape. Lucifer’s face is creased with fear, but Michael’s remains soft, almost sad. Which is the only, truly, honest part about the piece. These were brothers, now enemies, and only one can triumph.

As I continue to make my walk around the building I am lulled by the smell of the old paintings and dusting solution mixed with my own perfume. You can tell what rooms are most popular close to the main hall because they smell like people, but not in an altogether bad way.  I began to get hungry as I reached the still life section in the back right corner large central room. I recall another museum goer saying to her friend “Jeremey’s dad always said, ‘Food wins the heart but Art wins the soul.’” Bowls of fruit, tables with fruit and people wearing fruit enclosed around me. 

A painting titled Still Life with Orangesby Victor Vignon caught my eye particularly. It depicted a small table with a white linen cloth over it. On the table was a bottle and glass of, what looked to be, whisky, cheese, matches and peeled and unpeeled oranges. Taking a deep breath, I can practically smell the citrus and alcohol, fresh struck matches. Ironically the smell of burning matches reminds me of river water in the summer when my family goes kayaking. While staring at this painting I’m imagining Sunday. Not a particular Sunday but the feeling of what Sunday is. It’s mid-morning, you’re still up earlier than you want to be, probably hungover and you’re sitting in your kitchen or dining room near a window. It’s still cool outside, but it’s bright and fresh. And there you are sitting, drinking whisky, smoking, and peeling apart oranges. And as the painting looks back at me I think to myself, “This is my kind of morning.” 

Despite spending the majority of my time alone, I wasn’t completely left to my own devises. The strangers mulling about the museum with me were almost as fascinating as the art. While in the Modern American Art gallery a young man turned to his girlfriend and loudly whispered, “These paintings are really creeping me out.” Me too, dude. He obviously wasn’t intending others to hear him, but I could most definitely relate. I kept running into a mother and her toddler daughter throughout the museum. The first time I saw them mom was teaching the little girl right from left. The mom would ask “Which way is right?” and “Which way is left?”. Then the daughter would point her whole arm straight out. She didn’t point softly either. Her arm would jut out violently, beaded braids bouncing, as if she believed that if she pointed with enough intention her arm might stretch like Elastagirl from the Incredibles. This continued for a minute until the mother told the little one to look at her and where she was pointing. Right and left identified, they continued their walk. 

I saw them again in the portrait gallery. A marble statue of Atlanta stood on the left side of the room, arm positioned elegantly. She looked like she was either reaching for something delicate or dancing. The mother stood next to the statue, posed like Atlanta, and called her baby’s attention. She giggled and giggled at her mama. Then mom backs away and tells the girl to go dance in front of the statue. And she did, while mom videoed of course. She and her mother laughed, and I couldn’t help chuckling myself. 

It’s difficult to not be overwhelmed when you’re surrounded by so many grand pieces begging to be stared at. And stare I did. But, out of all the pieces I saw the entire day, the painting that drew me in the most was a frame in the European art section, almost hidden, and smaller than a piece of copy paper. Imagine you’re in Morocco, it’s early morning and the sun has just barely crested over the tops of the sandstone and brick buildings. You venture into the streets, making your way through allies plastered with ornate designs, on your way to the Bizarre to start your day. Whites, blues, golds, and every other color dyes could be fashioned to paint the mosaics on walls and doorways on your twisting journey. You walk into the final covered ally way before your destination; Moorish arches like horseshoes seal off both ends. Small groups of men in tans, white, reds and yellows conspire and deliberate about who can sell what wears where close to the sides of the ally way and in doors. They are jockeying for the best spots. And just past the ally, in the bright light of morning is the open courtyard you so eagerly advance towards. Children play and women mule about. The women are conspiring too, but probably about more social matters than their husbands. You can’t see much from where you stand but promise lies ahead. 

The painting is titled Beneath the Archwaypainted by Prosper Maritht. Despite being so small and relatively simple, it sparked in me a story I didn’t want to leave. As I begrudgingly returned to my body, I wondered if anyone else had been taken so deeply into the world the artist painted here. I’m sure they have been since the piece is in a museum. And that is really the most beautiful part about the whole place. It’s not just the art, but that every piece in that building has overtaken the mind of at least one person since their creation. That each piece has a story, envisioned by their creator, and has created stories in the minds of their viewers. Because if they didn’t, they wouldn’t be loved enough to be preserved for others. Yes, Jeremy’s dad was right when he would quote, “Art wins the soul.”