New Horizons at the Denver Art Museum

              Prior to May 5, 2012, every floor below the sixth (European Art) at the Denver Ar t Museum was irrelevant in my mind. Standing in the elevator, I’d give a casual glance at the floor map: Northwest Coast, American Indian, Pre-Colombian/ Spanish Colonial, Asian, Western American/ photography were clearly labeled, but I’d skip over them in stubborn indifference, pressing the button marked “6”. My tunnel vision for art led me to believe that  European Art was the epitome, the finish line. Renaissance to Modern equals the climax- postmodern and onward the resolution- and in by blithe condescension, I didn’t care to see the non-western exposition.

I can recollect the last time I was standing in the wacky, mountain-shaped building. It must have been one year ago a tleast- perhaps the spring of 2011. It was me, of course, who perused the hallways (of floor six only, mind you), but looking back it feels like a very dissimilar Brianna who did so. This was a Brianna pre-AP Art History class, a Brianna before her visits to the Louvre, Musee D’Orsay, Uffizi, and the Vatican. In other words, a completely different creature. I made haphazard attempts to research Bouguereau, Courbet, and others; my knowledge was limited. So I felt safe only with the art I was acquainted  with. I felt safe only on the sixth floor.

Summer 2011 I spent in Europe- a little tabula rasa surrounded by superb museums, exquisite monuments, and a culture that I’d only known  in movies and books. How could I fathom what a shock this would be- the airports, the hotels, and even more, the art? My shallow pool of artistic taste gave way to a bottomless ocean.

However, stubborn prejudices didn’t budge. Realism, learned technique, anatomical accuracy were the domineering lords which ruled over my bias on a piece of art- if it didn’t fit these standards it wasn’t worth my time. I judged myself as art savvy ; in reality I was philistine. My untrained eye was blind to the sensations of color, history, tone, composition, and conceptual worth. The elucidation from this predicament called for education. The following year I enrolled in Art History.

Opening my History of Art textbook for the first time, I sighed and huffed at how far back we were travelling in time. “Cave paintings, really? That isn’t art history, that’s art before relevant history was made”, I declared to Ms. Reiner. Looking back to that day, I’m embarrassed at my close-mindedness. Now it’s May, and we’ve covered more than a sufficient amount art “before history”, for me to get it through my thick skull how indubitably relevant it is.

Only now do I wholly understand the fervent dedication of tribal garb (ahem, second floor), the astounding antiquity of earthenware that dates to 1000 A.D. (that’s Pre-Colombian, third floor), the gossamer ornamentation of oriental pottery (um, fourth floor), and the multihued interpretation of Central America by W. P. Henderson (one floor up to the seventh).  Art that tells a story, art that utilizes color over line (or vice versa), art that challenges art- everything deserves, at the very least, consideration. Equipped with my new attitude, my visit to the incredibly diverse Denver Art Museum was the best I’ve ever had.