Not a-museum-ed

Museums frustrate me.

I want to like them. I go into them wanting to like them.

But 20 minutes later, I get antsy. In theory, I can stare at an epically beautiful sculpture forever. In practice, I’m halfway to the nearest bench by the time my museum-going companions start connecting to whatever classic I’m supposed to be savoring.

Yes, I get that I’m supposed to find something, somewhere in the painting/sculpture/modernist ridiculosity. Yes, I can appreciate its artistic value, its unique use of color and shading. Yes, I get its importance in the artistic canon.

But, no, I do not want to stare at it until my eyes feel like they will catch on fire.
I feel a sense of solidarity with the Russian tourist who inexplicably, while in the Louvre, threw a terra-cotta mug at the “Mona Lisa” earlier this week.

Although I don’t usually pack dinnerware as ammo when I go to a museum, there is something innately off about the experience of viewing art that makes me want to throw something.

First, the silence.

I understand that for a lot of people, museums are like houses of worship, where the stillness and beauty become a spiritual experience.

But it turns the exhibits from welcoming works to intimidating figures, overwhelming the room with their artistic significance.

I always feel like a 5-year-old in an antiques shop, inherently aware of the fact that one accidental trip could send me flying into a million-dollar canvas. Feeling like I don’t have a center of gravity is hard enough without the threat of “you break it, you ruin thousands of years of art.”

Next, the fellow patrons.

You know that friend who is a walking, talking encyclopedia of sports trivia who can tell you the third-highest scorer on the 1994 IU men’s basketball team?

They exist in the art world, too. It’s that guy in the hipster glasses, nodding plaintively and remarking to nobody in particular how he can see the influences of (insert the name of an obscure Spanish surrealist artist here) in this work.

Or that lady who steps up close then steps away then steps close again like she’s dancing with the painting, nodding and sighing the whole time, a single finger pressed to her lips.

I’m so proud of your master’s degree in art history and all, but please save the commentary for later.

But what irks me the most is the cold sterility.

Could most museums be any less inviting? Institutionally white walls, no natural light, box-shaped rooms. Most museum rooms feel like straitjackets.

I like pretty things. Who doesn’t?

And I want to feel like I have that sort of intense connection to something beautiful, like a spark of creativity in the hands of a gifted artist.

But, instead, I’m left feeling as trapped as the paintings are inside their frames.