I've been lucky to have seen some pretty good art in my day, perhaps because I've survived and persisted through seeing so much of the shit that passes for it. Much of it has been in the realm of photography, the one medium I have a passing acquaintance with. But I like to think that I can enjoy and sometimes even appreciate quality in any form, be it a vintage watch, a good cigar, a Renaissance painting.
On Memeorial Day Weekend, I visited Kehinde Wiley's tour de force at the DeYoung Museum in San Francisco. The highly detailed and decorative paintings, along with the reclining sculptures were impressive enough, but they neither grabbed at my soul nor any other part of me (others, maybe most, would very rightfully disagree). A major let down considering the hype concerning the amount of emotion that this exhibit was said to induce in all that saw it. Yes, incredible technique, but...
And then I came upon the sculpture of the same name- two stories in height, in its own darkened and discreetly lit chamber, reminiscent of entering some sacred Roman temple of yore. And there I stood- transfixed, mouth agape, as if bludgeoned by a ball bat upon gazing upward. I don't think I've ever experienced such a gut punch from a work of art my entire life; the size, grandeur, majesty- people reverently stood in silence, walked slowly around it, strangely seeming to adhere to the outer walls that contain it, as if keeping their distance from whatever power it exuded to all who dared view and present themselves before it!
The horse itself is classically magnificent, but what transforms the whole piece unto the realm of art mythology and personal resonance is the body of the black male atop it, on its back, legs splayed to one side, a solitary hand drooping down the other. Both stunning and heart wrenching, something I am not likely to forget ever- no photograph could even suggest the in person experience, none included...
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