The Louvre and the Masterpiece
Oct. 16th, 2009 09:16 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
pegkerrMy law firm obtained free tickets to see the new exhibit at the Minneapolis Institute of Arts, "The Louvre and the Masterpiece." It's definitely a show worth seeing. Beyond the opportunity to see works of art from one of the world's finest art museums (like Vermeer's "The Astronomer" [Hitler's favorite painting, oddly enough; there was a fascinating article about the painting's remarkable history during WWII in the Minneapolis Tribune today here] and John Martin's "Pandemonium," [click that link and use the zoom feature to check out not only the painting but the frame, which the artist designed himself]), the exhibit examines the question, what is a masterpiece? How does the concept of a masterpiece change over time, or with different audiences?
I took the girls, and they enjoyed the show, too. It's so nice that they are old enough to see something like this without grumbling. We did run into one hitch: as part of her requirements for the International Baccalaureate degree, Fiona has to log 150 hours as part of what is called her CAS report: She has to do 45 hours of creative/artistic activity, 45 hours of athletic activity (this'll be easy, with her karate), and 60 hours of service activity (this, too, will be easy, when she goes to Mexico next year). These hours have to be signed off by someone other than a parent (a sensible rule, I think, to head off potential cheating). She's just getting started on doing this. She had already let several opportunities to log hours slip without getting her log signed. So I reminded her to bring the CAS log sheet to the museum, and when we'd gone through the exhibit, I suggested she go over to the person behind the desk at the exhibit entrance to get her CAS form signed.
She would not do it. She would not, she would not, she would not. "Why on earth not?" I asked her, exasperated.
She fumbled to explain why, but of course she didn't have a real reason. "It's supposed to be someone who can attest that I did the activity," she mumbled finally.
"So, who else would you expect to sign it, other than someone here at the museum?"
She looked at me mutely, helplessly, and tears actually welled up in her eyes.
"Is this not an art museum?"
She nodded.
"And do you not want to get the IB diploma?"
Tears started dripping down her face as she nodded.
"You're going have to learn how do this. You have to get people to sign off on 150 hours for this type of thing, and here you are refusing to get the signature for the first hour!"
She looked over at the entirely nice and normal looking man behind the desk, not threatening at all, and gave me a pleading look. I sighed. "All right," I said. "Give me the form. Your mother will go over there and ask, and you don't even have to look at me do it."
Relieved, she surrendered the form, and I marched bravely over to the desk and explained the situation to the museum employee. "Oh, that's all right," he said casually. "Just take it to the information desk by the entrance. They sign forms like that for kids all the time."
So we took it to the entrance, and this time Fiona managed to profer the paper herself and get the signature. One hour down. One hundred and forty-nine hours to go.
It's strange how people have certain I-can't-do-this things that seem so simple to others. For Rob, it's using the telephone, and like most males, he refuses to ask for directions, no matter how lost we are. Delia dreads even more than Fiona asking any stranger for any kind of help.
I took the girls, and they enjoyed the show, too. It's so nice that they are old enough to see something like this without grumbling. We did run into one hitch: as part of her requirements for the International Baccalaureate degree, Fiona has to log 150 hours as part of what is called her CAS report: She has to do 45 hours of creative/artistic activity, 45 hours of athletic activity (this'll be easy, with her karate), and 60 hours of service activity (this, too, will be easy, when she goes to Mexico next year). These hours have to be signed off by someone other than a parent (a sensible rule, I think, to head off potential cheating). She's just getting started on doing this. She had already let several opportunities to log hours slip without getting her log signed. So I reminded her to bring the CAS log sheet to the museum, and when we'd gone through the exhibit, I suggested she go over to the person behind the desk at the exhibit entrance to get her CAS form signed.
She would not do it. She would not, she would not, she would not. "Why on earth not?" I asked her, exasperated.
She fumbled to explain why, but of course she didn't have a real reason. "It's supposed to be someone who can attest that I did the activity," she mumbled finally.
"So, who else would you expect to sign it, other than someone here at the museum?"
She looked at me mutely, helplessly, and tears actually welled up in her eyes.
"Is this not an art museum?"
She nodded.
"And do you not want to get the IB diploma?"
Tears started dripping down her face as she nodded.
"You're going have to learn how do this. You have to get people to sign off on 150 hours for this type of thing, and here you are refusing to get the signature for the first hour!"
She looked over at the entirely nice and normal looking man behind the desk, not threatening at all, and gave me a pleading look. I sighed. "All right," I said. "Give me the form. Your mother will go over there and ask, and you don't even have to look at me do it."
Relieved, she surrendered the form, and I marched bravely over to the desk and explained the situation to the museum employee. "Oh, that's all right," he said casually. "Just take it to the information desk by the entrance. They sign forms like that for kids all the time."
So we took it to the entrance, and this time Fiona managed to profer the paper herself and get the signature. One hour down. One hundred and forty-nine hours to go.
It's strange how people have certain I-can't-do-this things that seem so simple to others. For Rob, it's using the telephone, and like most males, he refuses to ask for directions, no matter how lost we are. Delia dreads even more than Fiona asking any stranger for any kind of help.