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I went to the MOAS today. It is my fair city's feeble yet strangely charming attempt at a museum. The first floor was taken up by the animatronic dinosaur attraction, which featured six realistic, moving replicas of various dinosaurs. The second floor boasted hands-on science exhibits geared toward children, and the Roomie and I spent a good hour there, playing with the gravity wells and frozen shadows and gravity balls and nifty flow motion exhibit.
The third floor... Oh, dear...
The man at the desk was so enthusiastic when he told us that two nationally-recognized, local artists were showing their work. In fact, he told us with childish glee, the artists were on the premises to show patrons around their work. Great. I like art, and hey, museums rule.
But...oh, dear. When we got to the third floor, the walls were lined with paintings that bore a startling resemblance to the color-it-yourself-blacklight-dayglo pictures you can buy at Spencer's or HobbytownUSA. They were gaudy and loud, and the animals resembled creatures normally reserved for the 3AM acid trip after the Rob Zombie concert. One work in particular showed Noah's Ark in a sea of blood, surrounded by mutated, decomposing animals. Okie dokie. I want to know what Corn Nuts they were eating.
Thankfully, the artists were out to lunch, so I was spared the agony of feigning interest while they gabbled about their theme for this piece of crackpot crazy or that heaping helping of What The Fuck. Lord knows I could never have been so cruel as to say I found them terrible and unappealing and the perfect decorative accoutrement for a pothead bed and breakfast.
God bless the museum; they tried so hard, and they're not exactly a community hotbed. My roomie and I and a mother and child were the only visitors all afternoon, and when we walked in, the man behind the desk looked orgasmic. I think he was also the gift shop proprietor and general museum caretaker. I've been hopelessly spoiled by the Ringling Art Museum in Sarasota, which, while it can't hold a candle to its New York, Chicago, or LA counterparts, is impressive and takes several hours to see thoroughly.
Still, I have hankering to go back and give the Little Museum That No One Visits a little help.
The third floor... Oh, dear...
The man at the desk was so enthusiastic when he told us that two nationally-recognized, local artists were showing their work. In fact, he told us with childish glee, the artists were on the premises to show patrons around their work. Great. I like art, and hey, museums rule.
But...oh, dear. When we got to the third floor, the walls were lined with paintings that bore a startling resemblance to the color-it-yourself-blacklight-dayglo pictures you can buy at Spencer's or HobbytownUSA. They were gaudy and loud, and the animals resembled creatures normally reserved for the 3AM acid trip after the Rob Zombie concert. One work in particular showed Noah's Ark in a sea of blood, surrounded by mutated, decomposing animals. Okie dokie. I want to know what Corn Nuts they were eating.
Thankfully, the artists were out to lunch, so I was spared the agony of feigning interest while they gabbled about their theme for this piece of crackpot crazy or that heaping helping of What The Fuck. Lord knows I could never have been so cruel as to say I found them terrible and unappealing and the perfect decorative accoutrement for a pothead bed and breakfast.
God bless the museum; they tried so hard, and they're not exactly a community hotbed. My roomie and I and a mother and child were the only visitors all afternoon, and when we walked in, the man behind the desk looked orgasmic. I think he was also the gift shop proprietor and general museum caretaker. I've been hopelessly spoiled by the Ringling Art Museum in Sarasota, which, while it can't hold a candle to its New York, Chicago, or LA counterparts, is impressive and takes several hours to see thoroughly.
Still, I have hankering to go back and give the Little Museum That No One Visits a little help.
