Wylie House

Our visits to the Wylie house have been unlike prior visits in that objects were placed in contexts of how they would or might have been used. Beds were in bedrooms, the kitchen was arranged so you could cook a meal, and rugs rolled out neatly on the floor. Everything is in great condition and gives visitors insights into what life may have been like.

It is interesting to note what is normal now that even the wealthiest people in the Wylies’ time did not have. For example, the house would not have had heating or air conditioning. It didn’t have televisions or even running water. At first, I did not even recognize the kitchen as a kitchen because there was no sink to be seen.

I wonder what the Wylies would think if they returned to the house now. Would they be happy that their house and some of their belongings and ways of life are being preserved and communicated to the public around the university they contributed so much to? Would they be honored that there are still people who care so much about what happened in their lives? Would they be disgusted and confused at how out of place and different everything was and how much everything had changed? Would they not care about the changes and demand we leave so they could move back in, having missed the house and good old Bloomington so very much?

This place made me think about what I would want people to see if I had a home that was preserved for decades or centuries after my death. I would not want everything to be so very neat, but maybe not as messy as my room is in real life—that could pose a hazard to visitors walking through. The things I would want people to see would be difficult to show without people there.

When people see my house, I want them to see an oven used to bake cookies for friends who are having bad days. I would want them to see Christmas lights hung up all year to make the corners a bit brighter. I would want them to see places of rest, places of work, and places of deep conversations had late at night. I would want them to see couches worn from movie nights with friends and carpets stained from many messy childhoods.

Then again, I don’t plan to live in a “mansion on a hill.”

When I think of what I would want people to see, I fear a house museum wouldn’t cut it. Perhaps a scrapbook would be a better, yet not perfect, representation.

I wonder how our positions and values in life change how we want to be remembered. I wonder if the Wylies would feel the same.

The Wylie house is lovely. The furniture is beautiful and the period pieces are very interesting and educational. I very much enjoyed visiting that house, knowing that my own will never be used in that way.

Meet the Pinkstons

This picture is a million stories. It is the story of my loftiest dreams coming true, a homecoming, an unpleasant surprise, and an unlikely victory for traumatic anosmia.

I am quite aware of the fact that this looks just like present day Jenna (minus the fashion atrocity that was permitted to happen), but this photo was snapped and this moment trapped forever in the summer of 2007.

                

In her book “Family Photographs: Content, Meaning, and Effect” Hirsch claims that “The places we photograph are our roots” (47). She goes on to talk about neat scenes of fences and houses and streets: traditional, rooted places of belonging. Though at first glance, it may not look like it, this is a photograph of my, and more directly of my father’s, roots. This is not a street. This is not a home. And no, this is not just a random pile of rocks on a foggy day. This is a volcano, and it is located in Indonesia, the country my dad calls home. I had, for as long as I could remember, wanted more than anything to visit this place.

                

Unlike the “symbolic pieces of territory” that Hirsch writes about—stairs that families return to for Easter pictures every year or a front stoop for the first day of each school year—my family has only been to this volcano once and has spent the vast majority of its time on the opposite side of the globe. This, however, also communicates about my family. We enjoy new and unique experiences and have had the opportunity to visit lots of faraway places, even if only once. The lack of architecture in the photo also reflects my family’s preference for the outdoors.

                

My favorite part of this photo is something that would not jump out to a casual viewer. If you look at each of our faces, you will see hesitant smiles on each of us beside my sister Joely, who is beaming unashamedly and my brother Jack, who just doesn’t know better. When I’ve mentioned that I climbed a volcano, people’s first thoughts are usually of red hot lava and black igneous rock. As you can see, that was not the case. People also generally think about climbing up and not down to get into the volcano. This was a volcano with lots of gray rocks and hot pools of equally gray water.

               

 Last on people’s minds is the sense of smell. It was not even a thought that crossed my mind before going to the volcano, but it was my first thought upon arriving. The smell of sulfur was terribly pervasive and terribly unpleasant. It smells like eggs in the worst of ways.

                

My sister, however, has traumatic anosmia; she cannot, nor has she ever been able to, smell. She is anosmic, smell-blind. Joely absolutely reveled in the discomfort of everyone smelling this situation. “This is so fun,” she said beaming, taunting us. It was adorable and annoying.

                

This is my family. Travels, adventures, togetherness, and anosmia. I like it a lot.

Murals

In my time at IU, I’ve spent a fair amount of time sitting in Woodburn 100, a large lecture hall on campus. On the walls of this space, there are two large murals staring across the room at each other. I have sat between them and stared back countless times, though if you asked me right now, I wouldn’t be able to tell you exactly what they were about. I could tell you, however, that I have noted time and time again the massive muscles showing through the clothing of workers. It turns out that these murals are the work of Thomas Hart Benton, and that these bulging muscles are characteristic of his work.

This week, we visited the IU auditorium to view others of Benton’s murals. In our readings, we learned that these murals were purchased under the direction of the president of IU, Herman B. Wells during the construction of the auditorium in 1938. These murals, having made an appearance at the World’s Fair, centered on Midwestern life and history.

Our site visit inspired a relatively random question. When we arrived at the auditorium, we discussed the medium of Benton’s artwork. Ms. Jean shared that tempera paint is made with eggs. I wonder if vegan artists refuse to use this paint, or if it can be made without eggs. I feel like out of all professions, artist may be one of the highest in vegan population.

I did a little bit of research, and it seems that this is an area in which people are growing in concern. There are all kinds of ethical and environmental factors that artists are considering, including both materials themselves and packaging and manufacturing processes. I personally am neither vegan nor artist, but if you are or wish to be, http://veganactivist.wordpress.com/2010/05/01/vegan-art-supplies/ seems to be a good resource for thinking about and discovering how to do vegan art.

Back to Benton.

I thought the comparison between Benton and Michelangelo was interesting and not one I would have thought of on my own. I was privileged enough to be able to spend time in Florence and Rome a couple of years ago and to see some of Michelangelo’s masterpieces like David and the Sistine Chapel in person. Here is a stellar photo of how fashionable I looked on the day I visited the Vatican.

Note the pushy tour guide who straddled innocent strangers to hasten our journey through the Sistine Chapel. Clearly, this is a snapshot of the best of friends in the best of times. Overall, a memorable experience. 

Both of these artists used vibrant colors, active poses, and emphasis on the human body (especially muscles). To me, the differences between artists seem more prominent. Benton was a painter; Michelangelo was a painter, sculptor, poet, and architect. (I looked up his poetry out of curiosity. I would suggest it if you are every in a dramatic poetry reading mood.) Whereas Benton’s murals centered on a region, Michelangelo’s focused on a faith.  They lived in entirely different times and places. I wonder if, given the opportunity, the two of them would have been friends.

Value and Paintings

On Wednesday, we spent our third week at the Indiana Art Museum. This week, we observed the modern art exhibit, displaying a collection of American and European works over time. There were portraits, still life paintings, sculptures, and more abstract pieces.

This display was different than any we had seen up to this point. In every other site visit, a large portion of the collection, were three dimensional objects. Many of them had functional uses, like dishes, cups, and vessels for serving food and drinks or clothing to wear. This modern exhibit was almost entirely paintings. In addition, there were a couple of sculptures, like a miniature bust and, from the more recent past, a wheel on a stool.

In “The Things We Carry” by Joshua Wolf Shenk, the focus is more on objects like maps or typewriters than paintings. However, it also talks about the concept of value. Shenk claims that “Value is not what we coax, toil, and scream for. Value is he coaxing, toiling, and screaming. Value is not relief but tension” (56). With this assertion in mind, I wonder how the values of paintings like the ones in the Indiana Art Museum are affected over time. How do their values change? Does their monetary value go up or down and by how much? How does the way people perceive value change and does that correlate with the monetary value?

I also wonder how many works of equal or greater value exist in the world today. If all private collectors decided to sell their art, would the value severely decrease? Will there always be paintings that are considered valuable? In a society where basic needs are not being widely met, how are perceptions and opinions of the general public on art changed or not changed?

This article also made me think about the more human aspects of art and objects. Shenk wrote about his grandfather’s Hebrew typewriter. Though he had tried to convince himself that its monetary value did not matter to him, having it appraised still affected his emotions and his outlook. What made this object so important to him was its story. Unfortunately for him, the story of his grandfather, a Rabbi in Corpus Christi, was far more significant to him that it would have been to the general public. In this case, even a specialized population, such as Jews, would still not be highly interested in paying a lot of money. However, Shenk got differing reports on how much money his prized object could bring in, showing how relative value is. When it comes down to the root of the issue, an object is only worth what someone is willing to pay. Since Shenk never went through with selling his typewriter, he couldn’t know its value with certainty.

Every object has a story. Most of the art in the Indiana Art Museum likely has a unique and meaningful story. I wonder how the people who painted the paintings that hang on the museum walls would feel about this part of their work’s story. Would they feel honored? Would they feel that it isn’t carrying out its purpose or representing them as they’d wish to be represented? Or would they not care so long as they made money off of the deal, desiring either wealth or just to support themselves?

My Favorite Place

The first day of M200, upon realizing the Bloomington Antique Mall was listed on the schedule as a field trip site, I was flooded with a range of emotions. The first glance excited me, since the Antique Mall is my very favorite place in the lovely city of Bloomington. Immediately following this excitement, I became hesitant, feeling an unmerited protectiveness of “my” space. I did not want just anyone knowing about it. This place is too special to be visited out of obligation and with no appreciation. For these reasons, I was glad that this was a solo visit.

I love the Bloomington Antique Mall. I love that I can be alone there, away from campus and the fast pace of student life. It is filled with stories and memories and vacant of deadlines and pressure. I love that every time I check out, it takes several minutes longer than it would at any grocery or store in the mall, as tags are physically cut and taped to receipts and items are carefully wrapped. I love the familiarity of the space, the process of saying goodbye to old vendors, wondering if they took business elsewhere or simply ran out of things to sell. I love secretly judging new vendors who fill empty booths, evaluating whether or not they seen to promote an environment of authenticity or if they are just jumping on the vintage trend with new objects made to look old. When I need fabric on the cheap, I wind quickly down the stairs, making a beeline for the bucket of fabric under a clothes rack. When I needed white gloves for a costume, up I went, straight to the drawer of gloves by the window and under a rotating display of jewelry. I know the mall, and it knows me.

This weekend, I visited the Antique Mall for the first time in about a month. First thing upon climbing the stairs, I quietly grieved the loss of a vendor who had taken with the rest of his or her objects a set of summery glasses that I had been eyeing for several months, but had never brought myself to buy and store in my college kid cabinets full of Pizza X cups. More spaces had changed in a short time than I expected, but such is the nature of such a place as more objects become antique every day. The Beanie Babies get to me every time, as I stare my childhood in the face and it stares back with the label of “antique.”

Like Hohn expressed in his lovely, poetic article titled “A Romance of Rust,” I do not necessarily belong to the antique scene, and am more of an observer than participator. I am from a suburban background, and my limited twenty years of experience with the items of this planet have not equipped me with knowledge about many items I encounter in antique situations. I participate in my own small way, having given new life to an old calendar, snack dishes that now decorate my kitchen cabinets, beautiful globe book ends, a woven purse, and various pieces of jewelry, among other items from the Bloomington Antique Mall.

I am a lover of museums. Despite my love, I can relate to Dana’s reflections on “The Gloom of the Museum.” I choose to believe that, in many cases, the journey holds more joys than the destination. Process is more important than arrival. The items in museums have arrived. There they sit perpetually, venturing only back into storage or to the next museum to sit. To me, antique malls offer a more optimistic, less gloomy life for objects. They are a step in the journey of objects, allowing extended life in a new place, with a new owner, and maybe for a new purpose. I view the museum/antique mall divide as the difference between being famous versus loved. Certainly there is value to fame, to being on display like an object in a museum, and it can be used for good, but I would much rather be unknown to most and have a private, active life, loved by those close to me.

I relate to Finn, who in “How to Look at Everything” writes of the eye of the soul. I have been known to fall in love upon sight with objects of little monetary value, sometimes bringing them home and intertwining our lives, and sometimes stepping back and realizing how many possessions already bless and burden me. I realize, too, like the authors of the newspaper articles in the reading for week 6, that this burden of blessing does not end with me, but will eventually extend to those assigned the task of sorting and finding homes for my things when I’m gone. So sometimes, the desires of my eyes are refused by the comforting logic that my dearest treasures are not physical at all. Like Pablo Neruda in his poem quoted in Finn’s “Things, Common and Uncommon,” I too love things and the stories they tell. May I always love the stories more than the items.

Monroe County and Ancient Art

The last two weeks, we have gotten to observe the principles from our readings in action in two different museums.  The Monroe County History Center and the ancient exhibit in the Indiana University Museum of Art have very different focuses, but both do lots of things well.

This week, both the article by Dana and the one on the Detroit Institute of Art showed the juxtaposition of the original purposes and uses of items and the gloomy, static present they face in museums. In the Monroe County History Center, while objects are no longer being used for their original purposes, most of them are placed in proximity of other related objects. The classroom and cabin displays tried to give a more accurate context of how objects would be seen in their day. By contrast, the items in the exhibit we observed in the Art Museum were sorted roughly by area of the world, but mostly isolated and placed in glass cases. Dana speaks negatively about this type of treatment, as the preservation of artifacts takes priority over the use of the artifacts for their original purpose or for the education of the public.

The article on the Detroit Institute of Art gives readers a good deal of background information on the items on display. I would have liked to have a similar guide in walking through the Art Museum. I like to not only look at items, but also to hear and read about them to get a better idea of their significance and history.

Dana also writes on the focus on extra-American items as art and as valuable. In this area, the two places we have visited so far could not be more different. The Monroe County History Center, as the name suggests, focuses on a small area of the country. All the objects I observed in the center were American. They were more accessible and less protected than one may expect of traditional museum settings. In the Art Museum, art is on display from multiple parts of the world, including Europe, Asia, and Africa. Absent from the display are artifacts from North or South America. On one hand, this may be justified given the “ancient” time period in focus. On the other hand, Dana may argue that this focus in itself and exaltation of the old may be flawed.

Also criticized in “The Gloom of the Museum” is the location of many museums. However, I think that both museums our class has visited avoid the main areas of complaint. The Monroe County History Center is in the center of downtown Bloomington in Monroe County. Being in the center of the city is one of the biggest features Dana advocates in location. In using pre-established buildings, the museum fits nicely into its surroundings, meeting another criteria Dana asks of museums. Likewise, the Art Museum fits into its setting. Placed in the middle of Indiana University’s campus, the large limestone building looks at home in the midst of academic buildings, libraries and the auditorium. 

The Local Museum

I have been to museums all over the world (see my main blog for such experiences) and have rarely encountered any that I did not appreciate and enjoy on some level. As a generally optimistic individual, I generally try to see the best in the situations I experience, including my museum experiences. However, this week’s readings have encouraged me to think critically and consider asking more of museums.

              

 I was grateful for the balance that came with reading both “Local History,’ Old Things to Look At,’ and a Sculptor's Vision: Exploring Local Museums through Curriculum Theory” by Elizabeth Vallance and “The Museum, a Temple or the Forum” by Duncan F. Cameron. Though I should have known via the absence of an oxford comma in the title Cameron’s chapter that I would enjoy the piece on the local more, both chapters brought valuable insights to my thinking about museums.

                

The chapter by Cameron focuses mainly on public museums. It calls all that would dare call themselves museums to a high standard of social and political responsibility. While the level of objectivity demanded in this chapter may be unattainable, it is worth looking into reform in the area of presenting multiple sides of stories and making sure that not only the dominant narrative is shared with the public. However, I am not sure I completely agreed with the strict defining and isolating of the museum upon which Cameron insists. I believe that there needs to be space for creativity and differences within the realm of museums. Having visited temples, I would vouch for their educational properties. A historical temple combined with aspects of a museum can be a great experience in learning what a certain group of people at a certain time valued.

                

The other chapter focused more on privately owned museums. While “The Museum, a Temple or the Forum” puts down the practice of subjectively deciding which items were real and valuable, the chapter by Vallance acknowledges the value of individuals being able to display collections that show more about themselves, such as The Continental Sculpture Hall. It allows a more fluid definition of museums. While still striving for a complete telling of histories, Vallance recognizes and celebrates the things that local museums do well.

                

The City Museum of St. Louis is referred a couple of times in “Local History, ‘Old Things to Look At,’ and a Sculptor’s Vision.” This summer, I visited this museum with several friends. While Cameron would likely argue the title of museum for this facility due to its playful nature as well as its being created primarily from one individual, I found it an incredibly valuable space that stretched my schema of museum in a positive way. Vallance comments positively on the quirkiness of the City Museum. While there is little text found in the museum, it is a testament to an incredible story of a man with a dream and a warehouse and encourages visitors of all ages to never stop playing an exploring, activities that create dynamic, lifelong learners.

                

 (I snapped this photo looking up in the City Museum in St. Louis)

(While exploring in the City Museum, I found myself in the giant teeth of a rock monster in an extended, multi-level indoor cave system!)

Over all, these chapters encouraged me to enter the museums we will experience this semester with a critical perspective. I hope to observe with an open mind, acknowledging strengths with enjoyment and weaknesses graciously.