Further Art of the Unexamined Life

I regret to inform you that the Kahlo exhibit was not taken in. The parking was bad but that did not hinder us on this warm night, no. There were streams of people crossing the roads and making for the locale, and I was apprehensive, but that did not hinder us, no. It was the long line, which I have observed when driving by the great, glass walls facing Hennepin Ave. People were standing in line to get into the exhibit. Alas, I said, it is not worth it.

I suggested the Institute of Arts which has many decent things on view for free. No, the rest of the collection at the Walker might be taken in instead. So we walked among the assorted brass canisters, the little plastic chair with a box of tissues on it and a drain built into the floor under it, the hanging sculpture based on the hood of a car, the sculpture that consisted of an entirely gray, wrecked Grand Am, and other such bric-a-brac testimonials of the decay and incoherence of Western culture.

What was interesting, besides the people wandering through, were the grey-clad guards. Apparently of the artistic persuasion—we have many such in the Twin Cities, they appear to originate in North Dakota, a lonely place by all accounts—, these guards are also encouraged to display eccentric behavior. One wandered around, tall, fair, with a ginger beard and sporting a grey turban such as one is likely to see on the streets of New Delhi. It may be this one was not from North Dakota although grey turbans may be fashionable there for all I know. Another wandered in a large room which was full of the smell of the blocks of wood arranged down the middle. She began to sing at one point, a beautiful and formless wailing. In one room I began to read the preposterous inscription beside something that had to do mostly with the artist eliminating things thereby, apparently. I saw, out of the corner of my eye, the guard begin a little dance or perhaps a workout routine. He wind-milled his arms backwards and shuffled his feet, perhaps exclaiming something or other. Ah, I thought, here is a son of North Dakota. I was going to ignore him when I realized that he was probably trying to see if people would ignore him, assuming he was deranged and possibly dangerous. Suddenly I found myself quite unwilling to grant him that. So I walked straight at him, smiling slightly (perhaps he thought I was deranged?) and not at all embarrassed—which was odd but that was the kind of mood upon me at the moment. I suppose I was in a more than usually contrarian mood. He stared at me with a smile that grew fixed and then he flinched as I passed him by. Yes, he actually flinched. I must say that I rather enjoyed making him flinch.

It made my day, actually. And on the way out, hanging in the shop window facing the street, they had ten Kahlo posters. We took them in and wandered out into the night.