I took my children to the art gallery the other day (I love the other day,  it is this lovely indeterminate time reference).  I am never exactly sure if they get anything out of these cultural trips, other than the experience of the train ride in, the busy-ness of the train and subway stations, and the slightly unsure feeling of whether they can trust their mother’s sense of direction.  I took them to see a specific installation that I had seen myself the week prior.  I thought they would enjoy it because it was more interactive than most of the art they see.  What I found fascinating was that the areas of the installation that I thought would capture their attention they weren’t as interested in, and that one of the areas made my youngest daughter cry.

When I look at art I see the whole thing and then I get up close and start deconstructing it.  I won’t say that no art disturbs me, but because I have a tendency to take it apart mentally, most art doesn’t.  So I was surprised at my wee girl’s reaction.  Now, a couple of weeks after the fact, she is making drawings similar to the room that had upset her so much.  I am not sure exactly what she got out of the experience but it appears to have stayed with her and she has come to some sort of solution about it.