St. Louis Part One

This past weekend, Alex had to go to a training conference, meaning I got to go with her.  This was a profitable arrangement for both of us, though admittedly I profited more than my dear wife; Alex had someone to drive her around, and I got to play and explore in a place I had never been before.  In this post, I'm going to tell you about day one of my adventures in the big city. Judging from the response of Alex and family members, I chose to spend the day as few would: I was in the St. Louis public art museum from opening to close.

I do not know what exactly the response of our readers will be to this declaration, whether they will balk at the notion of spending that much time in an art museum or accept it as something a rational person would do.  I guess I feel some need to justify myself.

Art can invoke some pretty strange images into the minds of different people.  Some of that is deserved.  I did see some of the weirder art that keeps many people from ever hazarding across the threshold of an art museum; one piece that struck me as having dubious value was four grey panels with a reflective surface, and that's it.  There were other pieces I liked less, but that work in particular stands out as a "See?  I can just donate my used deodorant dispenser to a museum and they'll call it art" moment.

A quick aside for any potential culturally advanced readers shaking their head at the unenlightened opinions recorded here: perhaps there is an argument to be made that such works have an intrinsic value.  Where I take exception with you is in the thought that this value cannot be explained to your average rational being, and if such artists are going to ask for public funding, then they should be willing to produce "accessible" pieces.  "The Emperor's New Clothes"  from back in elementary school taught me that one should never just accept something as true because a so-called expert says so; there is a halfway decent chance the expert is a fraud.

So please, my dear reader, should you be so kind, dispel the initial images often invoked by the word "art."  I want you instead to think of going to a car show, or a gun show, or an agricultural equipment show.  It is a source of wonder to me that an individual who would yawn at the meticulous etchings of an 18th century silversmith will suddenly become enthralled at the etchwork done to the barrel of a rifle.  Examples abound of this sort of distinction.  Art, as it has traditionally been defined, is a skill or craft.  In my job as a process engineer, I feel comfortable saying that I am practicing my art, and frankly I believe that life is best approached as working on a masterpiece.

There were many fine examples of these crafts; I do not believe I even saw a single painting on the bottom floor of the museum.  Instead, there were furniture pieces (I do not know near enough about carpentry or woodworking; it would have been great to have my late grandpa there to tell me all about what I was seeing), glass-blowing pieces, intricately woven mats, ceramics, metal workings, wood carvings, just an incredible menagerie of pieces pointing to the ingenuity of humanity displayed through centuries all across the world.

I am an engineer at heart and I just loved looking at an object and thinking about how it was made.  I read almost every display card (I usually don't get to do this when Alex is with me, its one of the reasons I spent so much time doing this while I was alone); I want to know when and where something I'm looking at was made, and if there is any detail describing how the object was made or what to look for to understand the fine craftsmanship achieved when creating the piece I love it even more.  I use that information to construct in my mind's eye the noble craftsman lovingly and meticulously forming beauty and order out of the raw product.  I find it any inspiration; it makes me want to treat all facets of my life with the same care as the craftsman.

This post is already getting long, so I will add more detail in parts to come.  A poem that I memorized several years ago seems very appropriate here which you may read if you wish.  Omnia Vincit Amour.

The Village Blacksmith by Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

Under a spreading chestnut-tree

The village smithy stands;
The smith, a mighty man is he,
With large and sinewy hands;
And the muscles of his brawny arms
Are strong as iron bands.

His hair is crisp, and black, and long,
His face is like the tan;
His brow is wet with honest sweat,
He earns whate'er he can,
And looks the whole world in the face,
For he owes not any man.

Week in, week out, from morn till night,

You can hear his bellows blow;

You can hear him swing his heavy sledge,
With measured beat and slow,
Like a sexton ringing the village bell,
When the evening sun is low.

And children coming home from school
Look in at the open door;
They love to see the flaming forge,
And hear the bellows roar,
And catch the burning sparks that fly
Like chaff from a threshing-floor.

He goes on Sunday to the church,
And sits among his boys;
He hears the parson pray and preach,
He hears his daughter's voice,
Singing in the village choir,
And it makes his heart rejoice.

It sounds to him like her mother's voice,
Singing in Paradise!
He needs must think of her once more,
How in the grave she lies;
And with his hard, rough hand he wipes
A tear out of his eyes.

Toiling,--rejoicing,--sorrowing,
Onward through life he goes;
Each morning sees some task begin,
Each evening sees it close
Something attempted, something done,
Has earned a night's repose.

Thanks, thanks to thee, my worthy friend,
For the lesson thou hast taught!
Thus at the flaming forge of life
Our fortunes must be wrought;
Thus on its sounding anvil shaped
Each burning deed and thought.