Tate Mod

Gallery day deux. And I am in the Tate Modern, wandering the halls and taking in the beauty around.

Some of the installations I don't understand. But it doesn't bother me that I don't understand them. The ones that make an impact are felt.

A particular piece sent chills up and down me as I contemplated what the artist was saying.

The piece was a mirror on canvas. The effect it had of reflecting back the viewer as art in a gallery felt narcissistic at first. But instead of turning away, I stood there. I saw myself. Dark brown hair, my eyes, relaxed, my lips slightly parted as if I was going to ask a question. I saw the instilation in the background, books with pages painted different colors. A girl passed and we locked eyes. I saw her curiosity on her face, mixed with, not judgement but disapproval. I smiled at her and she smiled back.

Maybe we were seeing two different scenes? She was seeing a women staring at hereof in a mirror. There is some disapproval in that in society. A distaste for blatant narcissism. But what about what I was seeing? Of course I was eyeing myself, but it was almost like slow motion. Like the gallery and the day was not speeding by. I saw myself in relation to those around me. I was a living piece of art, moving along in the same space as those other pieces of art.

I started to contemplate myself in relation to others. The complexity of my family and relationships in the states. How I yearned to have the relationship with my mom, the one I know she wants too, but how we are coming to it from such different frame of minds that the ocean between us seems as much metaphorical as it is real.

These are the things I relish about floating through an art gallery. The ideas and emotions that the art ignites in me bridges gaps in me. It connects what seems to be un connectable hopeless.