Touching The Art

I didn't go to the Detroit Institute of Art or local art galleries when I was a child. They were there, but I had no idea of their existence. 

My Brownie Troop went to the Verner Factory. We took a trip to the War Memorial. We rode on the commuter train downtown once. If the troop went to the art museum, I must have had chicken pox and missed the trip. 

The art I saw growing up was at the kitchen table. Mom taught me everything she was learning at Cass Tech. Art was more about doing than seeing.

There was never a field trip to an art museum in high school art classes in Ferndale, Palo Alto, Birmingham, and San Mateo (yes, four high schools, two states). We painted, drew, sculpted, made pots. But we never looked at grown up art.

After two kids and six years of military life, my little family came home. I went to Oakland Community College. My ex (before he was an ex) and I took a couple classes together, specifically, art appreciation and film appreciation. We didn't share the Bergman films with our kids, but the art museum was family friendly. 

I'll always remember the first time I saw it. The smooth, yet voluptuous, little-headed figure reclining in the center of one of the contemporary galleries, a Henry Moore sculpture. It was love at first sight. 

This is "Art" with quotes and a capital A. Art that makes your heart beat. Art that makes you feel all swoonie and alive at the same time.

The wood was polished to a golden, lustrous patina. I wanted to touch it. Run my hands all over it. Of course, if everyone touched it the wood would turn black. The glow would be gone. It would be wrecked.

John likes to touch art. I try not to be in the same space with him at museums, especially if there's a guard nearby. 

A few weeks ago Alison took the grandkids to see the Henry Moore sculptures in the Denver Botanical Gardens. I want to share her pictures with you. 

I wish we were seeing them live. I wish we could all touch them.