Georgia n' me

That time I chatted to Georgia O'Keefe 'cause I didn't have a choice

Art museums are like boo-boo salve for my soul, I love their sucking quiet, echoing footsteps, and rarified air that reminds us of how fancy we can all be and are just by showing up to this shiny place with our hard-soled shoes.

But not so much this day.

I was in West Palm Beach visiting family and was headed home after catching sunrise with my high school bestie on Palm Beach. I was supposed to go left but the car jerked to the right, and when I saw the facade of the large museum I realized I had a few hours and the chance to slip into that low hum of quiet and delicious eye feast. There was a Georgia Oʻ Keefe exhibit that spanned a whole bunch of galleries, and since I have loved her work since meeting the Sky Above Clouds painting at the Art Institute of Chicago, I turned off my phone and stepped into her world.

Art Institute - Sky Above Clouds IV

The curators had laid it out somewhat chronologically; bringing the story to us of how she met her husband and how, to some degree, he was the reason she was who she was and was able to do what she did. There were all the original canvases of all the paintings I've known on college dorm posters and in every art class I’ve ever taken; like a walk of fame made out of canvas and color. As I mused about how it was too bad that she wasnʻt self-made, that there was a man behind her success, a voice interrupted my thoughts.

“NO, that is not true!”

I wasnʻt listening for her, I mean, I had no intention of being a person who thinks they can talk to famous dead people. Because there is a SPECIAL space on the spectrum of ridicule for people who think they can talk to famous people on the other side.

But, she got a hold of me, her voice booming inside my head, and while I wanted to ignore it; as long as I was in those rooms there wasnʻt a chance. 

There were so many beautiful photos of her staring down the camera, which felt pretty singular, like, she was staring at me as she stated her concerns about how the work was displayed. Walking among the 100ʻs of manikins wearing clothing she designed, sewed, and wore, I could feel her swirling among the stoic figures and me. I found the garments to be both perfunctory and gorgeous - with gravity and elegance.

“Pfffftttt, she said. The way this is displayed makes it seem childish, like we are at a school for clothing designers and it is their show for parents to come be impressed.”

But I was impressed! I tried to tell her. She pffftttted at me again. But I turned with saucer eyes to her paintings.

All of them miracles, bigger than I thought, more stunning than you can imagine. Many of the ones that made me gasp were the same ones everyone sniggered about in college. Remember? They’d say “She was painting a vagina, donʻt you see it?”  But I was like,

“It’s a flower! Ohhhhh, oh? Yeah, I see it.” 

Drifting in and out of memory and also in awe at the body of work, I was kept company by her disgruntled voice. I tried to shake it off as I fought with myself about what I was hearing.

Jane: “Comonʻ Jane, donʻt be that crazy lady.”

Georgia: “Youʻre not crazy, stop that.”

Jane: “Oof.”

Georgia: “It's not that special really, the ability to talk to the dead. And you know you have it, so what is so special about this conversation?”

Jane: “Right.”

Georgia: “I donʻt like the wall colors, I donʻt like the way this is laid out at all. This painting, (pointing) absolutely should not be there, and my god not with that blue behind it. It's truly awful.”

She didnʻt ask for my opinion (I liked the blue walls) she went on. I felt like she had a stick in her hand and she used it in punctuation with her sentences - banging it on the floor for emphasis.

Georgia: “You could be my voice, yes, you should do that! Youʻll tell everyone that youʻve spoken to me and you could make the exhibits to my liking; be my representative. I need that”.

Jane: “Ok well, hello, nice to meet you and I donʻt think I am the one who should do that for you, while Iʻm flattered you asked….”

Georgia:  (she cut me off) “You are.  You actually have a bit of an eye and you can hear me clearly.”

Jane: “Thank you?” (If Georgia OʻKeefe compliments you, even in your own mind, it is worth taking a second to appreciate that moment).

Georgia: “Yes. they can travel you and you can be my voice and make sure they do not make a mess of it. Like this exhibition!” (and with that she turned on her heel and swirled her cape-like coat as if to say; Good then! It is sorted).

So there I was, chatting to the white walls and dim lighting; but not out loud, just in my mind, an earnest and concerned look on my face. It seemed like the field created by her beautiful pieces of work had me in their grips and I needed to get out of there.

I did my best to respectfully decline her job offer as I hurried out of the air conditioning, past the cool display of her famous black hat. It is a wild thing to imagine that you donʻt have mental privacy when you need it, and while I loved her intensity and single-minded pursuit of excellence, I also needed my own airspace back.

I pushed open heavy doors and entered into the steamy South Florida sunshine; blinded by the white walls and the blue sky of the courtyard. I wanted to believe what I had just been hearing and also thought that job could be kinda cool and yeah, really, needed not just for her but many dead artists. But then, as usual, I imagined the scorn and ridicule that would accompany such an endeavor and shook it out of my head and onto the hot pavement.  

Uncharacteristically, I skipped the museum store and cafe, and instead of picking up postcards of the beautiful paintings and clothing I had just seen, I scurried into the parking lot; away from the amazing Georgia OʻKeefe or any other artists looking for a channel to represent them here on earth.