Is It Art?

    

"You'd best be out of town before football season, though. 
All I can say is 'Fly, Eagles, Fly!'"

     A new exhibit has premiered in the Philadelphia Art Museum.  One which will last until September 1st.
      Touted as the leading edge representation of the human condition, “Body Worlds” is a show which consists of skinned human bodies (did I mention they were dead?) frozen in various activities like dribbling a basketball, riding a bicycle, or juggling pizzas.  To keep buzzards away from the front door, they’ve been injected with some sort of resin in a process called "plastination" which keeps them as stiff as Al Gore at the Senior Prom.

I'm guessing this is a boy. 
Although, with no junk, it's impossible to tell.

    The whole shebang is the brainchild of a German scientist, Gunther von Hagens.

Insert tasteless, yet predictable, joke here.

    Even though it strikes me as something of a freak show, it does a pretty good job of showing us what we actually look like inside (that would be gross).

     But, is it art?

     Fine art has always been somewhat of a mystery to me.  Whether an impressionist rendering of man’s inhumanity to circus peanuts or a Flintstones jelly glass, most art looks like it belongs in the “monkey flings poo” genre. 

Except Dogs Playing Poker. 
Now that's art!

    I’ve visited a buttload (not to be confused with the eminently larger “shitload”) of museums in my day from the finest New York galleries to what you can generally find scrawled on bathroom walls.  In each case, I study each exhibit, lost in deep thought as I pompously stroke my chin and wax eloquent to fellow museum mavens on what creative message the artist was trying to convey with his bold, dynamic blend of colors juxtaposed against the tragedies of our daily lives.

Then I realize it's a 'Piso Mojado" sign

    It’s not just paintings, either.  Unless it’s some Greek or Roman statue (identified primarily by missing arms or genitalia), most sculptures look like something a kid whipped up in his Play-Doh Fun Factory.

I'm fairly confident this is a girl, though.

    Take THIS ball of clay, smash it into another, differently-colored ball of clay, toss it into an oven and-voila!-we have the Creation of Man.  

Or Oprah

      OK, maybe I’m not the most sophisticated guy.  Maybe, to me, one of those velvet sad clown paintings, a “Beers of the World” jigsaw puzzle, or a statue of the Virgin Mary made of elbow macaroni are tres classy.     

    All this being said, though, there was this time where I looked at art for art’s sake and came away a better man for it.

    Quite a few years ago, I took a trip to Paris with some friends.  The City of Lights was nothing like I expected.  Clean and well-organized, its citizens were as friendly as can be (oops, sorry-that’s Epcot Center).

I learned that it's never a good idea to bend over in front of a French dog.

    Actually, though, we were treated very well, despite the sneezing powder in our escargot and the Jerry Lewis Marathon on the hotel TV (“All Jerry! All Day!").  At any rate, we were treated better than we probably deserved, given our propensity to amuse the unamuseable (is that even a word?) with our Pepe Le Pew impressions and our complaints of “You call THIS French Toast!?”

    While there, we did all the goofy things tourists are supposed to do:  gawk at the Eiffel Tower, marvel at the Arc d’Triomphe, sashay (or is that mosey?) down the Champs Elysee, and take in a show at the Moulin Rouge.

YOU know what kind of show I mean!

    After a week of carousing around the city, we grew tired of idling our way in tourist traps and cheesy trinket shops (Hey look! A statue of Napoleon made of butter!), we thought it would be a good idea to hit the Louvre.

    Even though my distaste for artsy stuff was well-known, I still thought I should give the most famous museum in the world a try.  What could it hurt?

    Plus, I might get to see some dinosaur bones or a mummy.  Cool.

    Unfortunately, we hadn’t given ourselves enough time to adequately tour the museum, as it is one huge momma.  We were practically forced to run through each of the galleries and, while I cannot be sure if one even exists, didn’t have time to see any caveman exhibits.

"Whaddya mean, we don't have to shave?"
"We're French cavemen.  Duh."

    Despite the seemingly endless assortment of objects d’arte, the main attraction of the Louvre is DaVinci’s Mona Lisa, so we determined that, if nothing else, we’d make sure to see the smiling lady. 

    Like a pack of bloodhounds fixed on the scent of a fleeing bank robber, we dashed through the museum, stopping only brief seconds to view anything which remotely caught our eye.

    Thank goodness there were signs leading to our destination; without them, we would have gotten hopelessly lost.  But, I’d sure like to catch that joker who swapped signs around.    

We wasted half an hour trying to find which stall hid the Mona Lisa.

    Finally, as we ran into the back of a huge queue (i.e., snooty ten dollar word for “line”), we arrived at our destination.  Somewhere up ahead was arguably the most famous painting in the world.  Even I was moved by the experience as we prepared to view history.

    As we drew closer though, we couldn’t help feeling letdown.  Rather than some huge production or jaw-dropping masterpiece, our Holy Grail came across as a bust.  Not much bigger than a postage stamp, the Mona Lisa was safely segregated from the crowd by Plexiglas and looked no more impressive than some kid’s paint-by-numbers set.  We felt that all the hype amounted to little more than a P.T. Barnum sham.

Yeah.  No fooling.

    Of course, we took the obligatory photographs, if for nothing else than to prove to our families we actually did more in Paris than drink cheap wine and wolf down cheese which smelled like stinky feet.

Among other things.

    Once done, we proceeded to look for an exit, our thirst for culture dashed and our feet weary from our madcap race through the Louvre Labyrinth.

    Shuffling into a huge gallery, we were startled by the many tapestries covering the walls.  An ancient smell of must hung in the air and we knew we were in the presence of masterpieces which were several hundred years old.

    One tapestry piqued our interest.  Despite being dulled from the passage of centuries, it excited our senses through its riotous display of colors and imaginative themes.

    Depicting the pomp and majesty of a king holding court, the tapestry illustrated dozens of courtiers (strangely, NONE of whom wore pants-except the king) and their ladies paying homage to their noble sovereign.

Plus, I could've sworn I saw half-men/half-goats chasing chickens.

    It was massive (that's what she said), as it fully covered one entire wall.

"Shoot, that thing'd never fit in the double-wide."

    Craning our necks to the ceiling in an effort to take in its full glory, our visit was vindicated by this wonderful expression of some unknown artist’s muse.  We stood, enthralled, knowing we were in the presence of something larger than ourselves.

    My concentration was quietly broken by one of my companions.  In one brief instant, he gave voice to a heartfelt sentiment.  A sentiment which shook me out of my revelry and brought me back to the role for which I am best suited:  Art Non-Snob.  A sentiment I knew was my own.

   “Gee, I wonder if you buy a couch to match it or buy it to match your couch?”

Or your collection of plastic dead guys?