The Meaning of Art Revealed A MONA Moment By Ron Roth Director Museum of Nebraska Art

So I'm standing in front of this remarkable print of a rabbit here in a gallery at MONA. But this is no ordinary rabbit. This rabbit, who's head is in profile against a pointed, Gothic arch printed in rich, pinkish red colors in the background, is attired in priestly robes. There is a beatific halo glowing behind its head, and its human hands hang down in the front, pursed in the shape of a heart. A turquoise cape imprinted with patterns of flowers and leaves cascades down around him our rabbit.

Something about this puzzling image that sparks a memory--something deep and fundamental. And then I remember. Around the edge of the print is a border of winged ants--the ants are black against a Grey ground. That border--playful, mystical and enigmatic--took me back to the moment in my life when, for the first time, the meaning of art was revealed.

It all started in high school, and it all started because of a girl--my high school sweetheart, Leslie. I was a junior and she was a sophomore in Brentwood High School in Pittsburgh, and she was the most talented artist in our school. As such, she was chosen to receive a scholarship to attend a special, art studio course at the Carnegie Museum of Art. The classes were held Saturday mornings. By taking Leslie to these morning classes, I could accomplish two high priority goals in life: finding a reason to spends as much time as humanly possible with Leslie, and permission to use one of the family cars to drive her to and from the art lessons. It was a beautiful thing. I had no interest in art to speak of except insofar as it gave me opportunities to hang around Leslie.

One day, after I had dropped Leslie off at her lesson, I strolled into one of the galleries of the Carnegie Museum of Art. This was the first step in my conversion. For as I walked into this particular gallery, there, arrayed across a whole gallery wall, was a billowing sail of color created by the master of color, Henri Matisse. It was a long, horizontal mural, of leave like shapes fluttering in deep, pure, vivid colors pulled along the horizontal plane by an invisible wind. I was hooked. To this day I can't explain it. But my spirit was lifted up by the sight of this heroically scaled monument to nothing more than the delight of pure color.

Leslie and I eventually broke up, but my interest in art continued. I went to college in Cleveland, and my campus adjoined the Cleveland Museum of Art. When I first walked through the front door of the museum I experienced a similar epiphany to the one I had had at the Carnegie Museum of Art. For greeting me in the inner hall of the first gallery, was a heroically scaled sculpture by Rodin of the great French writer Balzac. Here was Balzac, draped in a swashbuckling cape--proud, defiant and heroic. Wow! This is the man, I thought to myself. To the left of Balzac in an adjoining gallery was a huge, canvas by the British artist J. M. W. Turner: The Burning of the Houses of Parliament. Vast tracts of flaming golds, yellows, oranges and fiery reds engulfing the parliament buildings and doubled in visual impact through their reflection in the Thames River below.

I was transported. I decided that the study of art history was for me.

But there was a problem. As I took art history courses, at some basic level, I wasn't sure I understood what it was all about, this thing we call art. I mean well, what's the point really. And it all came down to my puzzlement at a 14th Century illuminated manuscript page from a hand painted bible, likely produced by a monk in a monastery. In the center of the page was a hand painted illustration of a serious, biblical scene, I think it was the Annunciation. You know, when the angel teels mary she will be giving birth to the child of God. Pretty serious business. But on the border of this page, surrounding the very serious biblical scene, was a decorative border with fanciful, but highly realistic renderings of rubies, emeralds, butterflies, and, well, insects. Brightly colored beetles, even a frog or two. And I'm asking myself what's this all about? What could those medieval monks be thinking of? Talk about pushing the old envelope. They must have been burning something a little stronger than incense in the old monastery.

And I remember thinking to myself if I can figure this out, I've got it, the meaning of art can't be too far away.

Then one day, miraculously, I walk into the auditorium of the Cleveland Museum of Art where my survey of art history class lecture was being held. And there, on the screen in the front of the auditorium, was a slide of this illuminated manuscript page! And oddly, there was a baby grand piano set up just to the side of it. And I'm thinking, whoa, what have we here. And then, very dramatically, my art history teacher appears from the wings, sits down at the piano, and starts playing a piece by J.S. Bach. I heard this piece a hundred times before. And I'm listening to this piece, and the right hand carries a light, sweet, charming melody, but the left hand, in the lower part, carries a serious, heavy, profound accompaniment, entirely different in mood than that than the light melody in the right hand. And even though they are very different, when they are put together, they create something beautiful, perfect and unique. And I'm thinking about this, and looking at that old, illuminated manuscript. You know, the one with the fanciful, light border surrounding heavy, serious Biblical scene in the middle. And then I see the point. I'm thinking it really doesn't matter that old monk putting together insects and the Annunciation all in one panel. It doesn't matter, because it is just so beautiful an image. It's art.