Let me explain everything I know about art: I like it. I don’t understand it and I can’t talk about it though. And for whatever reason, I’m attracted to the Impressionists, particularly Van Gogh. There is only one Van Gogh at the Museo Nacional de Bellas Artes, and I take a long time with it. I try to understand.
Now, when it comes to understanding, I’m not talking about the studied kind art historians make. Frankly, those people frighten me. It’s not that art historians don’t know anything. They know everything about technique and perspective and periods, etc. But their vocabularies are too complex for my feeble mechanism. Generally, when I look at a painting, I’m not thinking about what it means. I’m thinking about “why I like it”? Enlightening of this kind comes from unlikely scholars. Take the Texans, for example. We meet a whole family of them hanging out among the dead Impressionists. And they really know what they’re talking about.
My family must look strange. My sister attempts to wonder off and my mother attempts to hold her; it’s like they’re playing tug-of-war with an invisible rope. I’m taking my time on the Van Gogh and my mother, trying to find an acceptable level of harmony, is nudging me along.
“Give me a minute,” I say. “Move on if you will.”
“We’re staying together,” my mother says. It’s when the Texans hear English that they accost us, I think.
“That’s a fine one,” says the chief Texan, the father maybe, pointing to the Van Gogh. “Where ya folks from?”
“Pennsylvania,” my mother says. With great effort she is holding onto my sister.
“Nice state, PennsylVAIN’ya,” and pointing with his thumbs to a heard of large gregarious people behind him, “we’re from Texas.” The man is wearing an outrageous belt buckle and one of those ten-gallon hats. Anyone else would look ridiculous.
“We were supposed to go to Colonia today,” my mother says. “But the rain-”
The father of the Texans takes a long look at the Van Gogh. “I rec’a mend sturdy shoes for CALL-en-a,” he says. “Cobblestones make for hard walkin’ there.” My mother inquires about Buquebus, the river transport to Uruguay. The Texans clearly know something about this as well.
“I reck’a mend ya go first class. It’s a ‘ole lot bed’er up there ‘n it’ll own’ly cost ya eight bucks more. We’re thinkin’ ‘bout goin’ back ta Moun’ta-Vid’eeoo that way.” The father is referring to the capital of Uruguay, Montevideo, but pronounces it like a rental chain for DVDs. He says his family always travels this time of year because it’s too hot in Texas. They’ve traveled all over the world mispronouncing names of cities, he says. And listening to them I can’t help thinking how little pronunciation has to do with enjoyment. Certainly, the Texans have no problem enjoying themselves.
When I return my attention to the Van Gogh I can’t stop thinking about the light in the painting. It’s one of those windmills he did a few years before he killed himself. The light is so intense that everything fades into it. What’s funny though, is that there’s no sun, just a blue-gray horizon with faint cloud blotches. The Texans might know something about this.
“Do you like it?” I ask one them.
“Well,” says a younger Texan with a less pronounced accent. “When I look at this paintin’, I think oh’nly a madman could see it like that.” He pauses and takes a few steps back from the painting. “The…”
But I can’t concentrate on what the young Texan is saying because the father is talking about Montevideo so loudly that the entire museum can hear him. “Moun’ta-Vid’eeoo,” he says, and I want to laugh because I can imagine some Uruguayans working the desk at a cultural center there. Such employees might speak and understand English. They might have lived in Montevideo their whole lives too, but when confronted by the Texans, laughing and whooping around, asking about museums and restaurants, those Uruguayans might say: “Sorry sirs, but we don’t never hear of ‘Moun’ta-Vid’eeoo’ before.” Texans have that effect on non-native speakers of English. In fact, they have that effect on everybody.
I turn my attention back to the young Texan.
“… It’s a beauty, this paintin’, but ya hav’ ta be a bit crazy see things that way.”
“Or a lot crazy,” I say. And I wonder if it’s possible to be an impressionist of sound mind? I’m about to ask the young Texan, but the herd is leaving.
“Well, ya folks enjoy yur stay in BWAY’nos Air’s,” says one of the Texans. And they leave the museum like they own it, all of them, laughing and whooping around, talking about the world knows what. Some of the Argentineans pull their children close, afraid they’ll get trampled on. Others look to us for an explanation. I shrug my shoulders. Say what you want about the Texans. Those folks know how to enjoy themselves. They might NOT be many things, but they’re certainly comfortable in their own skin.
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