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Q: Is it OK to walk in front of someone looking at a work of art in a museum?
Classic question. Salad bar answer. But let’s say you’re at a museum or a gallery, and some painting has arrested you. (Doesn’t matter which one; the scenario I’m about to lay out happens at all of them.) For specificity’s sake, I’ll park you at the Broad in Los Angeles, in the space where Basquiats are hung. “Beef Ribs Longhorn,” “Wicker” and “Horn Players” live there. You’ve maybe never seen these in person. And it’s fun connecting the themes and motifs as they emerge: the squiggles, the cross-outs, the performance of self-educated primitivism; the aspiration to become as masterful at abstraction as Dizzy Gillespie and Charlie Parker were at improvisation. You’re thinking about how disordered these paintings are and yet how idiosyncratic their logic is, too, when … It Happens.
Somebody passes between you and “Beef Ribs,” shattering the bond between you and the canvas. Maybe it’s to snatch a selfie before racing somewhere else. Maybe it’s just two talkers who’ve parked their conversation in front of you. Now, it’s not as if you’ve had this Basquiat to yourself — I’ve plopped you in a high-traffic zone. And for the most part, no one’s really threatened your connection. But that’s the thing about these little aggravations: There’s always at least one person, duo or cavalcade comfortable with casually — I’ll just say it — stealing your view.
Art-going demands a negotiating spirit. Making physical contact with people is frowned upon; making contact with the art is forbidden. Space must be made, to see and to move. It’s a contract. So I try to position myself in a way that signals “engagement.” How close to a portrait or pedestal can I stand to preclude trespass? I might do something like lean forward, enough to warn, “Do not disturb.” Yet, for some of us, no pathway is too narrow, no body too angled forward for a blithe scooch between a spectator and a wall to seem unwise. I’ve been told that my eyes can get real evil over an etiquette breach. When somebody cuts me at a museum, these eyes must look downright Charles Manson.
Now, I’m a short person who’s developed some skill at navigating around the more vertical among us. I’ve been brushed sideways, nudged backward, upstaged, and I’ve simply had to move on. Generally, I can sense approaching passers-by and reposition myself in order to allow easy passage. But then there are some passers who seem to relish the interference. They’re not walking — they’re floating by, mocking your attentiveness. Human barges.
So: How much grace to grant? It depends. Navigating a museum can stand in for making your way around any public place, a whole planet even. Kids get a pass. The adults who brought the kids do not. Teach them well and let them lead the way. To this day, when I do my craning forward, it’s in the style that Miss Kipling, our school librarian, once told me is proper for regarding art: hands folded behind me. I probably look absurd, like I’m posing for Degas, but I do it.
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The post You’re Looking at Art. Someone Blocks Your View. Then What? appeared first on New York Times.
