Art after all

I miss art. I mean real, high-brow, museum-quality art. Trips to a local art museum used to be an at-least-monthly staple in my life before kiddos. Poking my head into a little gallery while on a downtown stroll almost anywhere I've lived was like breathing. But now, my exposure to art consists of the Jackson Pollock on page 21 of "Olivia" (you know, the precocious cartoon piglet) and the quick snapshots of Leonardo's "Mona Lisa" and Edvard Munch's "The Scream" in "Madeline at the Louvre" on DVD. I'm starving for some face time with oil on canvas.

On a recent Sunday drive, it became evident to me that N has experienced a similar loss in his life. I noted this as I watched his eyes light up at the sight of an architectural icon we just stumbled upon north of our city: Louis Kahn's Salk Institute on the sea-worn cliffs of La Jolla. N's passion for architecture began to bubble over as he pointed out to my mom and me the geometry and symmetry and how form followed function in Kahn's perfect example of modern architecture at its finest. He schemed for at least 30 minutes about how to break into the building to get a more intimate look at the courtyard overlooking the coastline, to no avail.

Later that afternoon, we came home and pawed through our old college textbooks from art and architecture classes. It was fun to talk about these things again, long after dust had begun to accumulate on both his architectural history degree and my art history minor.

Our lives now reflect little about those enthusiasms. In fact, N's official records with the Navy indicate he has some sort of architectural engineering degree--we're not sure who put this scientific twist on his actual (and more artsy-leaning) architectural history degree. At any rate, as a pilot and housewife, we're both worlds away from publishing discussions on Baroque and Mannerist sculpture or designing cutting-edge work spaces out of concrete and glass. We all have to make choices at some point.

Despite having feet firmly and happily planted in the career of full-throttle motherhood, I still crave a connection to the art world. And I think I'm looking for ways to make that important part of who I am relevant to my work with these little people.

So here's what I did last week.

I took the kiddos to the San Diego Museum of Art. It's free every third Tuesday, so I knew if it turned out to be a fabulous flop we wouldn't be out any cash. The museum doesn't have a kiddy-art room. There are no hands-on exhibits. The only thing tots are allowed to touch is gift shop merchandise and I wasn't about to make that our museum experience. So there we were at 10 a.m. when the doors flew open, standing hand-in-hand amid dozens of retired couples and high-schoolers, ready to start gawking at beautiful things. A smiling curator directed us to separate rooms for European, Asian, Pacific Islands, American and Mexican art. L chose European art first and we were off.

As we strolled, L gasped at oil-on-canvas portraits of wealthy Spanish and Italian ladies, dressed in lace and billowy gowns. C giggled at the bare behinds of nude sculptures and had to return at least six times to a 2000-year-old clay statue of a horse from China just so he could tell me he knew exactly what it was. Of course, everyone was tired of looking at walls filled with things we weren't allowed to touch by the time we finally reached my favorite room: High Renaissance masters. But I pushed us a little further--just enough to visit with old friends such as Caravaggio and Giotto. Then it was off to the potties and a then to lunch. I didn't even mind swinging by the gift shop so the children could handle some stuff before we left the museum.

On the walk back to our car, L asked questions about the differences between a sculpture and a painting. And thanks to my college classes, I got to tell her a little about the variety of media artists use to express their ideas and feelings. L asked if anyone would ever like to hang her artwork in a museum. Yes, I told her, but first you have to get a reputation through gallery shows and such.

Later that afternoon at home, L used her play-doh to sculpt a replica of a reclining nude she had seen in a painting. She says she's going to be an artist when she grows up. I tell her she already is an artist. Her work might not be considered high-brow or museum-quality, but I think what she's making is beautiful. And it looks great on our refrigerator, where all the really important patrons we know can see it anytime they want to--for free.