The National Gallery

I think the logo is boring. That being said, I'm afraid I do like it more than I like, for example, the Tate Museums' logos, which I find confusing and transient. But other than than the National Gallery's logo's consistency, blahhhh. I suppose its boring-ness could have a point. When I saw the Tate logo next to a work of art, I was distracted by the logo, but when I see the National Gallery's logo near a work of art, or even superimposed on a postcard or an umbrella or a banner, I have absolutely no interest in the logo whatsoever so I am not distracted from the art itself. However, I think it could still be improved. How? I have no idea. I just know that I'm not thrilled by it, but I have no good suggestion of what to replace it with. I do think, though, if I saw a good substitution, I'd know.

I like the van Gogh paintings, for the most part. I'll admit, I'm not entirely thrilled by the still life chair-type paintings, but I love his landscapes and natural subjects. I like the squiggly lines van Gogh often uses. Perhaps it's because I let my knowledge of his life and end color my opinion, but I've always thought the repeated lines give his works a sense of time flying by, a feeling that this moment is stolen and cannot be properly captured because it's about to float away. For example, in his "Wheatfield with cypresses," I feel like the clouds are literally moving, that the painting is more a snapshot, capturing motion in a freeze-frame. The "Long grass with butterflies" painting also seems to capture time passing, but in a different way. Unlike the "Wheatfield with cypresses" or the "Sunflowers" paintings, this piece focuses on a close-up of grass with a distant path in the background. It seems like a photo that was accidentally taken when the camera was pointed at the ground. The background grass seems to be bent in the wind, while in the foreground, bare patches of earth can be imagined. I love the contrast between the pokiness of this piece and the flowiness of the cypresses piece.

I want all of JMW Turner's pieces. My favorite from this collection was "Ulysses deriding Polyphemus." Looking at the piece, I was amazed at the color, the composition, the contrasts, the figures, the story and just everything. I really, really like this piece. I think it would fit perfectly on the wall of my future castle, over the mantle. My sister and I have always loved studying Greek mythology. When our friends were reading "Goosebumps" and "Nancy Drew" to each other, we would take turns reading out of Edith Hamilton's "Mythology." This Turner painting not only pleases my eye, but also brings to mind happy times spent with my sister, something we continue to this day.

I have varying feelings about the wall colors of the National Gallery. On the one hand, I love the richness they create. The bright colors also make the spaces seem less like a gallery. On the other hand, the colors sometimes conflict with individual paintings and sometimes seem chaotic and confusing. Who chose the colors and why? What authority did they have? Personally, I had a real problem with the rooms that were not only brightly colored, but also wallpapered. The scalloped fleur-de-lis-type patterns on the wallpaper seemed entirely inappropriate in a gallery. I really didn't like galleries 33 and 34 for their sky blue and gray-green wallpaper. I also wasn't a huge fan of the tangerine in the Vermeer room. Why tangerine? I remember hearing that tangerine was a popular wall color in the 1700s or so from a castle tour I was on in Dublin several weeks ago, but is this the real reason for the tangerine, or was it simply because all the other colors were taken, and Vermeer was just unlucky? I did, however, like the rich red in the room that displayed the "Execution of Lady Jane Grey" by Delaroche. Though morbid, the red seemed to fit with the painting and the dramatic scene it presented. I also liked the muted gray-brown in the van Gogh gallery, mostly because of the beautiful green marble door frames, which I absolutely loved.

I'm not really sure how I feel about the use of famous art in objects such as umbrellas, handbags, and tshirts. I want to think of it as needlessly commercializing great art, but then again, I find nothing wrong with the sale of postcards of artwork. I find the postcards to be a way for people to remember their trip to a gallery where photography is not allowed, and also as a good way for a free museum to make some money. If I don't mind the postcards, how can I mind tshirts or umbrellas? They're a way to integrate great art into everyday life. Instead of disliking that art is being brought down to every day level, I find it charming that people can access the work of Vermeer or van Gogh or Picasso and surround themselves with the cultural capital that comes with the images of the great artists.

I really enjoyed looking at Renoir's "Gladioli in a Vase," 1874. As an obsessed gardener, I love representations of flowers and plants that are true to form. The gladioli in the painting could be growing in my garden. Really; I have some that are that beautiful coral color. I realize that this is hardly a grand or exotic or limit-pushing piece, but that's what I like about it. It's peaceful. It makes me want to look at it. I'm a simple person when it comes to art: I like pretty things, and I would certainly classify this as a "pretty" thing. Renoir gets everything right, from the flowers to the lighting to the lovely blue contrasting vase. Normally I don't like still life paintings, but with the flowers, it doesn't seem still and boring. I also loved it because of the giant urns full of  real fuscia-colored gladioli on either side of the main staircase when we walked into the gallery. The echo of the real flowers made the painting all the more fun to see.

The Tate Modern

Perhaps the ever changing logo of the Tate museums is a testament to the spirit of modern art, but if I'm being totally honest, I don't really like it. I think it's confusing and kind of annoying to never quite know what I'm looking at. Sometimes different versions of the logo are placed right next to each other, and that just seems rather juvenile and silly, as though someone couldn't be bothered to either choose one or even synchronize which logo goes where. Maybe the different degrees of blurriness make a statement about the art the logo is supposed to represent, but if this is the case, they have failed miserably to communicate whatever message is being portrayed. I can't imagine what the blurred logo could mean...maybe the difficulty of some to interpret modern art? Maybe the difficulty to represent modern art? If this is the case, then why are the logos so similar? If I were to try to represent the difficulty in representing something, I would make it obvious, perhaps use blatantly different styles of logo, not just variations of a theme as is used in the Tate's logo(s). But, I'm not trained in art at all, so maybe I'm just missing the point...but then again, I am a member of the general public, and if I don't get it, they don't get it, so what's the point?

I was very surprised to realize that most museums in London have free admission. I had expected at least nominal fees, but the British museums seem to want to encourage exploration by everyone. I really love this! It gives me something to do in this horrifically expensive city that I don't have to pay for, thus encouraging me to go multiple times, and it's a place where I actually learn and get cultured and feel as though I've passed a productive afternoon. Going to a big museum in the States is, I think, more of an "event," for special occasions only. I've only ever been to the big Chicago museums once, on a vacation there when I was around 13, and while I remember being awed and amazed, I don't remember anything else. My sister and I had wanted to take a roadtrip to Chicago this summer to re-do the museums, but with both of us working full time, it just wasn't possible. I think here, the museums are much more accessible. Perhaps if the field museum was free and not $29 to get into, our road trip would not have seemed so daunting. It's one thing to take time off work to go to a museum, but it's another to pay almost $60 for two people to just get in, let alone eat or go to any special exhibits. Yesterday, I went to the London Aquarium, which charges a pretty steep admission, but I was able to get a discount for booking online after 3pm, for being a student, so I convinced myself to go. I was able to rationalize the 14 pounds I had to spend by reminding myself that I hadn't paid for anything at all yet, and I've been to lots and lots of museums over the last month. I love knowing that all that stands between me and a wonderful afternoon spent marvelling in a museum is tube fare, and sometimes not even that.

I liked the idea of Al Weiwei's "Sunflowers." I was very excited to see it. After seeing it, however, I am disappointed to report that I was underwealmed. I supposed the idea of a giant pile of man-made sunflower seeds is more enthralling than the realization of it. I think one of the problems I had with getting the most out of the piece was that the sunflower seeds were just not displayed to any sort of advantage whatsoever. I would have liked to see some variation or movement or pattern or something, but raking them into a flat layer really just didn't make it work for me. I think it could have been much more interesting if they were in a pile or just randomly strewn about. Had Weiwei's original plan worked out, with people being able to walk through the seeds, I think I would have loved the exhibit. As it is, while I understand the point about the individual among the masses, blah blah blah, I wasn't so amazed. The most interesting aspect of this piece was, in my opinion, the back story of how the seeds got made and painted.

I really liked the white walls of the Tate Modern. While I loved the rich color on some of the Tate Britain's walls, I felt that the white was perfectly appropriate for a modern collection. For example, I thought the bright green-blue painted on the Turner Collection's walls in the Tate Britain added to the opulence and lavish qualities of his landscapes. The color also nicely offset the gold of the ornate frames around his works. However, in the Tate Modern, the clean white walls seemed perfect to show off the more modern, varied works on display. The walls didn't color the experience, pardon the pun. Growing up, my mother never let my sister or I paint our walk-in closets or our shared bathroom, because she said we should be able to choose our clothes and do our hair and makeup without another color reflecting back on us. The white walls of the Tate Modern seem to mirror my mother's point: color is an experience in itself, and lack of color allows whatever is on display to do its job without interferrence.

I like the history of the Tate Modern's building. I think it's immensely appropriate that the place is an old power mill. There's something poetic and modern about repurposing a dingy brick building into a collection of art. I think the insides were ok, but I don't think I liked the layout as much as I could have. Perhaps it's because the original structure of the building imposed limitations, but I would have wished that the upper floors were more inviting, rather than doorways off a main room. Once I got into some of the galleries, it seemed to flow better, but stepping off the stairs and having to choose one room to enter was rather off-putting for some reason. I think I was a little scared to make the choice, worried that by choosing one doorway I would not have the chance to explore any others. I think the white walls again enhanced the space, making small rooms seem larger and brighter. I think the white was a wonderful idea, especially considering the building's history. Had the rooms been painted another color, I think they may have seemed more claustrophobic, but the white made everything bright, and even the windows seemed on display.

To choose my "object of appreciation," I had to just make a slightly arbitrary decision. I could have chosen many other objects, but I settled on one by Max Ernst that caught my eye. The painting, "Forest and Dove" from 1927 made me think of a Brothers Grimm-style fairy tale. I, of course, am always intrigued by birds, so the little red bird in a cage in the scary forest appealed to me. I love how ambiguous the "forest" is, with dark saw-like shapes standing in for conventional trees. To me, this ambiguity allows the viewer to insert their own idea of a scary forest into the painting, be it a dark city or forbidding mountains. I love the bird's stick-figure-like simplicity. The giant white eye draws the viewer in. At first, I didn't notice the lightly-sketched cage, but I think it adds a whole different level to the painting and the story behind it. As the plaque next to it says, I do get a feeling of both "enchantment and terror."

Tate Britain

I'm really not a big fan of the Tate Britain's logo. I think it does come across as easily recognizable, but for the wrong reasons. I don't like the blurry word "TATE" at all. I think it's fuzziness is rather annoying to read. Perhaps if the blurriness had more to do with the museum, it would work better, but I don't see the Tate Britain as being blurry. I understand that the Tate is sort of a "chain" museum, but the blurred logo does not accurately represent each museum individually. I also really don't like that the word "Britain" is above the word "Tate." How am I supposed to read that? When I see it, I immediately think "Britain Tate." Honestly, if I were in charge, I would completely re-do the Tate logo for all the Tate museums.

John Everett Millais' painting of Ophelia's death is, I think, a depiction of a very straight-forward reading of Ophelia's role in Hamlet. Millais' Ophelia seems to have fallen into the water, either on purpose or accidentally, but she seems to have no inclination to get herself out, and appears to be slowly sinking with her bouquet of flowers. This is a very naturalistic scene, and Ophelia does not seem out of place. To me, this represents a reading of the play where she has only one option (death), which is somehow the natural outcome of the events that have driven poor Ophelia into madness. In Nicholas Hytner's production of Hamlet at the National Theatre, Ophelia's death seems to be the absolute opposite of "natural." She is dragged off stage after her final outburst by violent-looking men in suits, with the implication that these men (probably under orders from Claudius or Gertrude) are directly involved in her subsequent death. In this reading of Hamlet, Ophelia is a victim of the other characters, but not herself. Though she goes mad, she never seems suicidal, as Millais' Ophelia does. Hytner's Ophelia has not yet given up on life, but is presumably violently forced to relinquish it.

My experience in "The Coral Reef" by Mike Nelson was...disappointing. At first, I hoped the exhibit was one I'd read about in National Geographic and Smithsonian Magazine some months ago, also called "The Coral Reef" (this exhibit is a depiction of a coral reef made from knitted and croqueted material sent in from amateur craftspeople from around the world and I think is on display somewhere in the USA), but nope, this version of "The Coral Reef" is just a little bit different. When I read that Nelson's piece was supposed to show different layers of belief systems, I was intrigued, and excited to see how it would work. I'm sad to say, it didn't, at least for me. I really did not get Nelson's message at all, not even a little. I thought the exhibit was just weird, and not weird in a good way or weird in a provocative, make-me-think sort of way, but just weird for the sake of being weird. I felt like Nelson was presenting me with the most bizarre set of experiences available and saying "Look what an artist I am!" but I was not impressed. The only thing that linked the many rooms and disjointed objects together was the sense of weirdness. I didn't see layers of belief systems at all. I guess I think that just creating something that is strange and weird and bizarre and scary doesn't make automatic "art." I took nothing away from the exhibit, except maybe a sense of extreme disappointment.

Comparing the Tate Britain to the Victoria and Albert Museum is, I think, a bit like comparing apples and sardines. Both have the same general function, but I would never think to compare or combine them, because they're just too different. I loved both, but I think each serves a very different purpose. I felt that the V & A was much larger and sprawling, and contains very different historic artifacts, whereas the Tate Britain is an art museum. The V & A seems to hold more diverse objects, with different historic functions, which makes sense given its experimental original purpose. The Tate Britain is a true art museum, holding classical artworks as well as more modern ones. I like both, for different reasons. I think the Tate Britain is very impressive and fun to look at, and I love that I can always find something new at the V & A to be excited about.

I could never choose a "favorite" object from the Tate Britain collection, so I just decided to pick one that I really like. I chose JMW Turner's "The Bay of Baiae, with Apollo and Sybil" from 1823. I just really liked looking at this painting. I love reading stories of Greek mythology, so the story behind the painting is a familiar one. The Sybil asks Apollo to grant her as many years of life as there are sand grains in her hands, which Apollo does, but the Sybil has overlooked one major downfall of long life: ageing. She has forgotten to ask the god for eternal youth with her long life, so she will now whither away for centuries, cursed by her own greed. I love Turner's depiction of this scene. The setting is so peaceful and full of rich colors and scenery, that the story's rather morbid message provides a stark contrast. I love looking at the exquisite detail in the painting, from the trees to the crumbling buildings to the central figures, but what really caught my eye and made me decide to label this my "favorite object" is the little white bunny rabbit opposite Apollo and the Sybil. For whatever reason, the little bunny adds just that extra bit of whimsy and fantasy and interest. I thought it was by far the most interesting aspect of the work, especially since it's a white rabbit painted against dark shadows, so it's a very prominent figure in the painting. I wonder why Turner included it, but I'm very glad he did.