Whichever way you slice it

Though I am pretty much inept in the kitchen, my significant other keeps insisting that I adopt his passion for concocting amazing cuisine. This past weekend I suggested we try making Mango Chicken, my favorite dish at any Indian restaurant. We made something tasty, although it wasn't remotely Indian. Not surprisingly, we had to cut up some mangoes for the recipe. Mangoes are a tricky fruit to cut and so I went online and found step-by-step instructions.

http://homecooking.about.com/od/howtocookbasics/ss/cutmango.htm

The process is actually pretty amazing. You cut off two big sections of mango and create a checkerboard of incisions in the fruit, but not the skin. Afterwards, you turn the skin inside out and the fruit pops out, like scenes from a pop-up book, ready for extraction. It was so satisfying!

I kept thinking about the process for the rest of the weekend and it occurred to me that it was sort of similar to looking at art (particularly when there's a skilled facilitator). When you first see a work in front of you it may seem strange and impenetrable. When you start carefully looking, breaking things down into smaller, more manageable pieces and then the entire work begins to reveal itself and the viewer can access it at a new level. Hopefully the result is something more authentic than the Mango Chicken I made this weekend.

The poetry of pictures

A couple years ago my friend and I spent a hilarious afternoon on the third floor of the Fogg Art Museum at Harvard, where they were displaying pictures and poems by elementary school students. The children had studiously copied famous works of art and wrote short interpretive stanzas relating to their pictures. Some were poignant and thoughtful. Most of them seemed comical because the children focused on aspects of the paintings that were unimportant to the typical art historian but were fascinating to their young eyes. They became fixated on things like pearl earrings or walking sticks laid carelessly behind a portrait subject and in their reinterpretation of the work, the earrings or the walking stick took center stage. It was an absolute pleasure to see the works through the children's eyes.

At work, I recently asked a nine year old boy to write a response to a work in the museum's collection. He liked a picture of the Grand Canyon and he chose to write a poem. Here's my favorite part:

Formed over millions of years by wind, rain, ice and by the Colorado River.

A spectacular view captured on canvas to excite and inspire us,

Makes me want to go there and hang glide off the edge,

And go soaring through the canyon with the birds.

There's the funny and there's the poignant. And then sometimes, some one can capture the essence of a scene and what they have said or written becomes even better than the work itself.

Lasting comments

A few months ago the docents held an end-of-the-school-year-celebration-luncheon as a way to mark the end of the busy tour season. I racked my brain for a way to thank them for all of their hard work. I wanted to give them something, but of course had no budget for gifts. Ultimately, I spent my own money to design a docent calendar filled with images from the collection and marked with the dates of upcoming programs. I figured they could use the calendars to record when they were doing tours -- at the very least, it was an utilitarian and aesthetically pleasing gift!

As I handed them out, I made a personal statement about each docent. "Mary, I appreciate you because..." and said something different about each person: how they interacted with children, how they were a sponge for information, how they were always available to help out. The docents raved about the event and especially about the personal, public thank-yous.

Earlier this week one of the docents stopped my office after a tour. She said "This group I just took through the museum was really the best group ever." I was surprised, because she had just worked with a very young group from a inner-city day camp. In a split second, I realized my "docent appreciation" for her had been, "You always say your tour groups are the best groups ever." It was really her ability to see the good in people and not lose her cool if the tour didn't go as smoothly as planned - that was what I appreciated. Right after she said her famous line she laughed and said "I know I say that about everyone!" I was so happy that my "docent appreciation" had stayed with her.

Fascinated by your thinking

Months ago, during a committee meeting, a small group staff and board members conceived of a new program at the museum which would bring in diverse audiences and empower the public in the curatorial process. We had invited a small group of the community to visit the vault, select a single work for exhibition, and write a label for the work. Today I got to glimpse the new program come into fruition.

I ran into the superintendent of schools as he was posing for a picture with the painting he had selected. I was so surprised to see his choice -- it was dark and somber. On first glance, it looked like black clouds over a desolate landscape, with large silver targets hanging in the sky. It seemed like such a strange choice for a person who, publicly, is full of positive energy. Now I am so intrigued to learn more about why he selected that particular work...

I almost wish we could give every community member this opportunity. It's such a great way to learn about people and the way they think. And that's what looking at art really boils down to - for me as a museum educator -- it's about learning about people and works by sharing thoughts and ideas. And the role requires someone who always has to be fascinated by other peoples' thinking.