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  • I don’t get art.

    I’m sorry. I know I shouldn’t admit to this as it perpetuates the gender stereotype that women lack the capacity to think and understand things (or perhaps we’ve already overcome this stereotype and my comment has retroactively reinstated it?), but let me explain.

    I have an appreciation for art, but I never find myself moved or transported by a piece. To put it into perspective let me just say: I bought a Gustav Klimt print from Ikea because it matched my couch. Normally, on the seldom occasion that I find myself in a gallery or museum, I scoff at the seemingly jumbled pieces in front of me. "Seriously, I could do this," I say to anyone within earshot. Perhaps I should blame it on my stubbornness or negligence to look beyond the canvas – my unwillingness to pause and think.

    Sure, there are works that I could stop and stare at with interest, like Sigmar Polke's "The Watchtower" or Pierre Bonnard's "Nude in Bathtub with Small Dog", but even then I am just playing a part – the role of "culturally enriched gallery patron." I cock my head to the left. Step back. Step forward. Squint. Then I nod my head like the painting just told me a secret. But in reality, I am the one whispering, "Don't tell on me."

    It's odd that the canvas an artist pours their heart onto is lost on me. The thick layers of paint hinting at their pain, wide brush strokes signifying their loneliness and blood red scenes depicting unrequited love, leave me completely devoid of sentiment. Yet the scene in Adaptation where Meryl Streep brushes her teeth can leave me emotionally wrought for a week.

    God, how great is Meryl Streep?
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