May 5, 2016

Field trips in college are much different than those in high school. There’s an air of freedom and opportunity, a chance to see things that your classmates have no interest in, a whole world to explore in wonder and admiration. That’s why I was thrilled to go on my first such college field trip last March. The Minneapolis Institute of Art.

I had been to the MIA once before, just a few years prior to this excursion, and it had a strong impact on me. I spent the majority of the time meticulously studying all the non-Western-culture items, from ancient Egyptian artifacts to Hindi statues and Japanese sumi-e works. I spent so much time in this section, in fact, that I never had a chance to check out any of the paintings.

When I heard that my painting class would be going to the MIA, I couldn’t have been more excited. I struggled through a few weeks that could have just as easily been a few months. Finally, the bus arrived.

After more than an hour’s ride, we were dropped off at the door. The first thing I noticed as I entered several sets of doors was the enormous orange glass sculpture hanging from the ceiling. I had seen it many times before on the way to the Children’s Theatre next-door, but due to a recent awakening, this time I was able to appreciate it as the intriguing piece of abstract art that it is.

Once inside, I partnered up with a friend, and we began our day’s journey. At the start, we got lost in the East-Asian exhibit, and for a while I was concerned that this trip would be the same as the last one, enjoyable and intriguing, but incomplete without paintings.

Inside this exhibit, my friend noticed a statue of the Hindu elephant-god Ganesha that inspired her upcoming mixed-media project.

Eventually, we untangled ourselves from the maze of kimonos and teapots and into the realm of the Western painters. I’ve never really appreciated paintings—even in my art classes in high school I abhorred painting and refused to do any more than required for the grade, preferring to draw instead. But something in me clicked last autumn. I suddenly had an irresistible urge to paint… something. That’s why I enrolled in this painting class.

Since I started painting this semester, I had grown to appreciate the amount of time and skill it takes to create even the most effortless-looking painting. I admired the stunning realism that I found in the works of great masters like Jean-Léon Gérôme’s The Carpet Merchant and the breathless expression of Claude Monet’s The Seashore at Sainte-Adresse. But even more than those, I became fascinated by some of the abstractions that I saw—a genre of art that, until only recently, I had loathed.

Tea II, by Elizabeth Alexander. A dysfunctional teacup with organic holes cut into the sides.

Ruminations on the Right Angle, by Mary Ann Currier. A series of eight square canvases (two in each of four sizes) that explored color harmonies and different shapes that could be made by overlapping squares rotated to different degrees.

Arrangements 1–4, by Jimmy Baker. These pieces explored a complicated network of ideas in color and organic shape.

Together, these three pieces redefined my concept of contemporary art and opened my mind to consider what I’m doing and where I fall into that world. As a painter. As a writer.

As a musician.