Daytripper just won't die.
Most of the people who know me are pretty well acquainted with my continuous suggestions for day trips in Philly. Especially during the summer, I ramp up the nagging with half-baked trips to the Jersey Shore, Longwood Gardens, and the Italian Market. Hell, part of the reason why I joined Street and did Guides was so that I could show Penn the often-unseen cultural life of our fair city. That being said, I'll make my most forward and unashamed endorsement ever: I encourage everybody and their mother to see the Andrew Wyeth exhibit at the Philadelphia Museum of Art, running until July 16.
It's funny first walking into the exhibit, because at first glance, nothing seems all that special about Wyeth's particular style. As an artist, Wyeth recreated many scenes from his life in Pennsylvania and Maine, with landscapes, people, and the occasional cow grazing on sloping hills. What's impressive is the near-photorealistic quality of the pieces, since Wyeth painted his works with the utmost detail and care. Paintings such as Groundhog Day seem to be almost exact replicas of a simpler time that has long passed: winter sunlight filtering in through a window and a kitchen table neatly set on a plain white tablecloth. Wyeth's works are both serene and palatable to the casual museum-goer, making the exhibit accessible to pretty much everybody.
But therein lies the danger of viewing Wyeth: if you casually pass through the exhibit, the artist doesn't seem that impressive at all. Sure, the man has an amazing degree of technical skill and an eye for composition, but to the uninitiated passerby, Wyeth's artistic vision and execution come off as dull. Compared to modernists of his era, who were toying with the notions of form and color, Wyeth's works may seem like Paint-By-Numbers. Does Wyeth really display the artistic expression worthy of such a grand exhibit, or is he more like a documentarian, recording the banalities and occasional little joys of everyday life?
To tell you the truth, there's no way I could ever know the answer to that question. The closest thing to art that I engage in is Street, and if Street is considered "art," our culture is going to Hell in a hand basket. But I can say with certainty that absorbing the exhibit at a deliberate pace reveals the veiled and enchanting side of the artist. Hidden beneath the photorealism is imagery fraught with personal significance and raw emotional power. It's all a matter of unfocusing your eyes a bit and seeing each element of a painting as part of a whole, how it's juxtaposed, and what it could mean. What does the face of a model say when her cold blue eyes stare directly at the artist, and at the viewer? Who plans on sitting at the table in Groundhog Day, and what's the significance of the uprooted tree just outside the window? It's this hidden and sort of magical world that hovers just below the surface that's essentially limitless once you get there. It's all about being willing to see what's really there, instead of what may actually be there.
This whole monologue was a sort of long-winded way of to get back to the original premise of the piece. That is, Philadelphia may seem like an alright place to live, but like Wyeth's paintings, it's really the things underneath that make it vibrant and alive. Plays, concerts, and restaurants all provide Philadelphia with a readily recognizable identity. Even though it may not always pull through, I sort of hold Street responsible for bridging the divide between Penn and The Rest of the World. It's easy enough to see the world on the outside, but to see it from the inside is something special.
Moral of the story? See Wyeth, read Street, and keep on planning those summer trips.
