Starry Afternoon

We finally remembered to bring the camera along on one of our New Haven excursions, and whaddaya know but the security guard told us the main attraction was off limits to cameras.

The main attraction these days at the Yale Art Gallery is Vincent van Gogh's famous "Starry Night" and somewhat less famous "Cypresses." Hopefully you all already are familiar with "Starry Night" — awash in deep blue, village nestled among hills, dagger-like tree in the foreground and yellow and white stars sparkling overhead — since we have no pictures of it to share. (Or, I guess you can click here.) Impressive, as were many of the other paintings in the gallery's modern wing.

Liz has an aversion to some of the more abstract examples of modern art. I'm trying to break her of that, not because I'm a modern art booster, but rather because I think folks should approach art with an open mind and then decide for themselves if they like what they see. Sometimes it's hard to break down the barriers of rational, linear thought so that you can truly see modern art or any art in its proper context. For example, you may look at one of Mark Rothko's two-tone color studies and think, "That's lame, just some colored rectangles." And you'd sort of be right — but still missing the point. Some art is merely a study of shape and form and color and texture, and someone like Rothko is known for his instantly recognizable approach to that puzzle.

Then there is Jackson Pollock, one of the great devils in Liz's art-going experience. She is right that his wild drizzling on canvas looks like something a child could have done, but this is deceiving. Pollock makes it look easy. He, too, is instantly recognizable because no one else has done what he did and no one else could do it as masterfully. And what has he done? Well, that's open to interpretation, like all great art. Mostly I like it because the fury of lines suggest chaos yet also, splashed against a monochromatic background, seem to follow a mysterious order. Some metaphor for life perhaps.

At any rate, Rothko and Pollock are among the rock stars of modern art, so it's cool just to say we've been there and seen it up close.

That Old English Wit

No one turns popular wisdom on its arse quite like Oscar Wilde.

Case in point: "A Woman of No Importance," which we had the pleasure of seeing Saturday night at the Yale Repertory Theatre. (My apologies for the snooty Ivy League spelling of theater, but I'm just copying what's written on the program.)

Somehow I was able to make it home from work early and usher m'lady into the witty world of high society in Victorian England. The plot was somewhat irrelevant. Anyone who goes to an Oscar Wilde play for the plot should be forced to repeat English 101. It's the zingers on relationships and propriety that make the experience a delight, as oppose to a "bore" or an "utter tragedy," as old Oscar might say.

Here is one of the play's particularly biting Wildean riffs: "Men marry because they are tired, women because they are curious. Both are disappointed."

Or this: "Children love their parents. Eventually they come to judge them. Rarely do they forgive them."

Of course, these aren't so much truisms as they are observations. They have the ring of truth, but each member of the audience must decide how much stock to place in them, taking into account that a particularly cynical perspective on love and marriage might be deemed disagreeable to the lady or gentleman sitting next to you in the theater.