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I tried to write about last night but was unsuccessful. Not enough sleep, I guess. Difficult subject. Who knows.
Yesterday I went to the museums, the historical and the Georgia O'Keeffe. They did not like me very much at the O'Keeffe place. I kept asking why so much of her work was subpar, if not outright poor. They told me that I was not allowed to take pictures but I didn't see where it was posted anywhere.
Her work was always very inconsistent for me. The standout pieces are just that. I liked her take on modernism, towering vaginas in the sky and all that.
When you go and look at a lot of her work, all hung together, you realize that she was not only referencing vaginas, there are also many anuses to be found there, if you stare. She denies that her flowers are vaginal but anybody that has ever studied the subject closely recognizes the immediate and striking similarities. Her work would bore me witless otherwise, like most of Kandinsky.
Her works were described as "broad and expansive," which is sexist on one count and vulgar on the other.
They were all humorless at the museum, guards often are. They probably dream of one day being customs agents. I queried them on who would win in a fist-fight, Frida Kahlo or Georgia O'Keeffe? I knew their money was on O'Keeffe. But Mexicans and the Irish have a proud history of producing fine boxers, and paired together they often make for good matches.
I asked where the bathroom was and was instructed to walk down a specific hallway. At the end there were two doors, one said "women" and one said "men"... my choice seemed clear. I was there to learn. When I first walked in there was much excitement. I thought that I must be in the right place, the vagina palace. I took a look around. But the excitement quickly gave way to a graver tone, a hushed seriousness. The room emptied out. The cops arrived just as I was starting to get a feel for the place.
They had no interest whatsoever in my story about door choices and unintentional aesthetics. I assumed that they were also philistines. They barked at me, as they were walking me out handcuffed, in front of all the staring people. They barked at me about privacy.
Nothing at the time, to my mind, seemed more contrary.
"What about the vaginas?" I offered. "What about them?"
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