I was in Detroit around the new year and managed to catch the exhibition of 30 Americans at the Detroit Institute of Arts.
Now, this was a beautiful gallery filled with haunting imagery by a buttload of really talented artists.
Things like this waited around the corner:
There wasn't much talking.
In fact, I want people to appreciate some of my favorite pieces just on their own merit.
Deeply wonderful and beautiful works of art.
Social change.
Lots of buzzwords.
Now, while wandering the gallery, I noticed something peculiar.
All of the patrons in any given room seemed to be Caucasian.
All of the security guards were black.
It was that quick.
I turned around and realized everyone looking at the art was white.
Everyone facing away from the art was black.
It was that fast and that jarring to me.
Because I am sure it isn't wholly true.
Not everyone who visited the museum and 30 Americans were white, but it seemed like a microcosm for just a split second and threw up a couple of questions.
Who was the art for?
Normally, I hate the discussion of demographics.
It sets my teeth on edge.
But, smarter artists than me market their art for a particular audience and find success with it over and over again.
Young Adult fiction writers do well not to write gritty murder erotica to "experiment with the form"
SO who was this art for?
Then, I started wondering if art serves a purpose.
Does it promote something? And if so, then what?
Are we meant to learn? If so, what is the lesson?
And who is learning something?
What are they learning?
Because these images are directly from the heart of a dialogue that is raging in this country.
What is the message?
What is art for?
And then, the spell was broken.
A middle aged, black woman complained of a lost ring.
She said it was precious to her, very valuable, belonged to her grandmother, part of a set, and lost in these rooms.
Suddenly everyone was looking.
And I mean everyone.
Kids were on the floor, men were asking her where to search, women were comforting her.
Suddenly, the whole relationship of the building was inverted.
The art was now just obstacles to be moved around.
No one faced the art for a full five minutes.
The ground was more fascinating.
Under our shoes was more interesting.
It was one of the strangest moments of my life because the museum was no longer quiet and reverent, but filled with bubbling voices and rapid movement.
I have finally seen a child on the floor, army crawling underneath the benches of a museum.
It was sweet.
The questions shifted to some older ones:
When is it art?
When is art valuable?
There is some objective level of art at a certain point, once it has been sold at auction, art has intrinsic, monetary value.
But, this art, that was worth millions of dollars all told could not compare to the interest held by a hundred year old engagement ring.
Life is a barrel of weird.
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