I went in to see her. How can we describe a clod like me in an art gallery? 'Bull in a china shop' is certainly accurate, but a cliche.
If you have seen the Coen brother's classic, Raising Arizona, think of that scene when John Goodman, playing a smelly jailbird who has escaped prison, is watching an opera on PBS. He is trying to understand it--but he is uncomfortable and frustrated. That is me in an art gallery.
I enjoyed photographing my host's beadwork when it was out of focus. When it was in focus it lost all its magic. Why is that? Is it because I can't connect with the colors and brilliance if I am dwelling on geometrical form?
Maybe this is an eccentricity of my central nervous system. You get into your friend's car who you haven't seen for a long time and he instantly flicks on loud music, like he's doing you a big favor. You are somehow supposed to converse.
My central nervous can't seem to experience anything intensely if it is bombarded by a half-dozen irrelevancies. This "problem" has gotten worse since becoming a full time RVer and boondocker.
Maybe it's because when you move into a natural setting, away from the clutter and noise of a city, your central nervous system undergoes gradual changes. It must, to adapt to the lack of nuisance-level distractions and stimulations that comprise urban life.
Consider this photograph of my young shepherd mix, Coffee Girl, gamboling along a grassy ridge at sunset. It's not a pretty photo, but I don't understand why everything in nature is supposed to be pretty.
You could even say the photo is austere and empty. But to me it is full enough--there's my dog in the bloom of youthful health and curiosity, grasslands, ridges, and a sunset. Anything more would just overcrowd these good things and make it hard to focus on them.
