The American Visionary Art Museum (AVAM) in Baltimore defines visionary art as being “produced by self-taught individuals, usually without formal training, whose works arise from an innate personal vision that revels foremost in the creative act itself." It’s about “listening to the inner voices of the soul” and making something out of it. Where visionary art differs from classical folk art, depends on whether the artist was formally trained or not. But in all honesty, there is no reason to really differentiate between the two. They both serve the same purpose of expression, holding some deep meaning to be understood.

       Or do they?

       The real question to ask here is what does art mean, or rather, does it mean anything at all? Must art hold some sort of deep, spiritual meaning? When people walk into a museum, they probably assume that every piece has meaning. They most likely assume there is something that the artist had in mind as they painted or sculpted or created that piece. But who ever really takes the time to think about it? Who really stops and stares at a piece until “aha, I’ve got it”? Can art really have meaning if no one knows what the meaning is? And really, is it even necessary to know the meaning to enjoy the art?

       I focus my attention more on visionary art because I, myself, am a visionary artist. I’ve made art most of my life. I love it, and it is very important to me. But something I’ve never felt necessary to dive into before was what art means. I simply design things and they are what they are. Oftentimes, I’m practicing painting portraits and the meanings of those projects are rather skin deep. But last year I designed something different1, something weird that I simply wanted to paint. However, every time I showed someone the idea, they all asked the same question: what does it mean? For the first time, it felt important that my piece had meaning, that it held some deeper statement other than “the idea just popped into my head.” 

:::

What Do You Mean?: a three step guide to finding meaning in art

(based off the technique used by art historian, Erwin Panofsky)

What you Need:

Art (including the kind that looks like it was made by a five-year-old)

What you Do:

Look at the art 

LET’S GET PHYSICAL! (aka let’s look at what the art is made of)

Find your inner child and stare at that art like it’s a marathon of Disney channel original movies

Be unique and take more than the two seconds everyone else is probably taking to look at that art

Important questions to ask:

What the fuck is that?

See the art

Seeing is believing

Forget being physical, let’s talk about our feelings

ACTUALLY, LET’S BREAK UP (the art)

Erwin Panofsky originates this part

What an icon

Get it? 

Cause his study was called iconography?

Individual parts = a collection of symbols and themes

Be anally retentive for a second. Separate the individual pieces of the art, don’t let your symbolic peas touch the symbolic mash potatoes

Actually, the best therapy is sabotage, combine all the symbolic pieces. 

Important questions to ask:

Could it be… symbolism?

Think about the art

“Wow, without context, that makes no sense”

Important questions to ask:

Who?

Where?

When?

SABOTAGE!

Combine everything

“Oh, I get it now” (theoretically)

:::

       Saturday, March 16th, 12:302

       “I’m here to interview Bob Benson.”

       “Oh yes, of course, he’s down in the basement. You just go up the ramp and down the stairs. Here let me just give you a stamp.”

       The American Visionary Art Museum is right next to inner harbor Baltimore, Maryland, about a ten-minute walk away from the Baltimore Natural Science Center, another favorite for people to visit. The building itself is round, already an odd shape for an even more bizarre place. On one side the building is brick, an illusion of normalcy. Round the corner and the truth is revealed.

       Nothing but glass, from ground to roof. A collage of reflective surfaces and the color blue, a pattern of swirls exploding over the surface. The shards are very meaningfully cut, so precise and small, placed to fill in every gap on the surface of the building. 

       The woman presses the vintage looking circle stamp onto the back of my hand, before putting it away. Left in its place is a light blue eye. The eye is thick line art and instead of a pupil, a spiral swirls around the iris and thick lower lashes lines the bottom of the eye.

       I take a second to admire it before heading on my way. 

       I walk up the opening ramp, lined with floor to ceiling windows. I glance out at the glass tree that sits on the front lawn. I know now that it’s one of Bob’s creations. A mass of metal framework covered head to toe in mirrors, it looks like a big Christmas tree, and dangling from its branches are flashies, Bob’s personal creation.

       I had been so excited when I received the email from Helen that Bob wanted to show me his studio. She’d been so helpful in finding someone for me to interview. Bob hadn’t been the first person she tried to set me up with. I felt excited nonetheless to talk to an artist whose work was actually in AVAM. 

       I round the corner and walk down the large spiral staircase to the basement. They are wide and look like marble. Hanging over the base of the steps is a sign held up by a double headed dragon that says Bob Benson’s flatulent post. The letters are crude and clearly made of purple glitter puffy paint, but it oddly seems fitting.

       Now this man has character. Beyond the fart jokes and facts, he lays onto the audience is a general love for the art he creates. This podium is no different. He’s so very obviously amused by the people who have no idea what’s going on.

        “You ma’am, would you come up and press this button?”

       She’s nervous, which is fair, considering some old guy she’s never met before is beckoning her to a podium after talking about farts. 

       She hesitates for a second, before stepping forward. Her first answer is no, but she walks towards the podium anyway. She reaches out, step by step getting closer.

       “Press it firmly,” he says.

       She nods, finally reaching the podium, pressing the button down and...

       Nothing happens.

       “I said press it firmly.” 

       “I did,” she says, but presses it again anyway.

       This time the sound is unmistakable. It’s light but it rumbles, definitely not the most impressive of the 67 different farts to come out of the machine, but it gets the point across. This is indeed a fart podium.

       “How about you sir?” Bob points to another person, probably the first lady’s boyfriend or maybe husband.

       He steps forward, no holding back, no hesitation, unlike his lover, and presses the button.

       Out comes another fart, this one deeper, longer, quite frankly grosser. This one sends a chuckle through the audience. 

       “That was a good one.” Bob jokes.

       Another person, then another, steps up, each taking their turn to press the magical fart button.

       I step back, there’s a small desk area just across the way, and I begin to set my stuff up.

       “Now here’s my card, there’s a website on it to go and look at the video of all the farts.”

       It’s a catch, I’m certain, but everyone gladly takes a card. I wonder if they will really go home and look at it ever again. A part of me hopes so after all the effort Bob seems to have put into it.

       Everyone else walks away, someone remains behind simply to press the button without a crowd, but Bob walks over to me.

       “You can give me a ride home right?” 

       It’s the first thing he says to me before we start. At first, I am completely and totally confused. 

       Is this man serious? I think, only to realize that, yes, yes he is.

       I wonder for a second why he doesn’t have a ride but then I really look at him. He’s older, much older than I’d expected, probably in his 80s. He’s tiny and walks much slower than me and when he leaned down to ask the question there was the slightest hesitation in his movements. I think about my grandmother and the year she became too old to drive. The struggle of getting around eventually led to her never leaving the nursing home.

       “If not, I just need to arrange a ride.”

       I have no intentions of being rude and in all honesty, I don’t really mind.

       “No, of course I can,” I reply.

       “Good because otherwise I would have to make arrangements.”

       “No, it’s alright I can take you. We just have to wait for my friends to arrive at the museum and then we can leave from here. They should get here around two.”

       He nods. I sit on a stool and he drags over a step stool that sat by the podium. He slowly sits down, and we begin.

:::

In the Mind of the Artist
Getting to Know Bob Benson in One Act
Scene 1: Art

*Set in a basement area. The lighting is rather dark in many places, but there is a light directly over the podium which illuminates the area we sit. Bob is an artist whose work is displayed at the AVAM. He’s an 89 year old man. He comes to the museum every Saturday to talk to people about his art, especially the fart podium.*

Me: How did you end up a part of the museum?

Bob: *takes a second to think about it before jumping right into it* All my life I’ve been interested in art, music and art. And then about 13 years ago I was on the eastern shore visiting a friend and in his yard was a single strand of four double mirrors hanging in the sun, shining and just looking beautiful. I thought to myself that just looks great, and I just went on from there. Then I had to decide what I wanted to do and figure out a way to do it.

*A man and woman walk by and stop to admire the fart podium*

Bob: *turns around in his seat* Folks if you press the button on top of the magic flatulence post you’ll hear a prize-winning contest entry.

*A tiny toot followed by a long, sharp fart. A slight pause then another toot, before the final puff of gas is released.*

Man: I’ve heard better.

Bob: I was making all these things, all these flashies and things, and then by the next year—

*Farting, deep but short and sweet*

Bob: Rick, you’ll probably meet him, he and his wife are neighbors of mine, he was out walking his dogs…

*Loud fart ripping through the air. Everyone stops and listens*

Bob: And he says I love what you do, why don’t you make a Christmas tree. And I said I would love to except it would take a strong metal base and I can’t work in metal and he said well I can. So, he designed the metal frame for the tree, he brought it over. I covered it with mirrors, and it looks just great. And a little while after Rebecca Hoffberger came by and she said: I want that. It has turned out just brilliantly, and I couldn’t have done it without Rick Aims. Rick is such a great artist. We’ve worked on a number of other projects together. For example, upstairs the ocean under Icarus, Oceanus, we did that too. And we also made the sun above Icarus on the third floor for the Visionary Art Museum. So, we took it down and made it a little bit bigger, a little bit stronger, and took it down to the visionary.

Me: Okay, so you said that you’ve always had a passion for art. When did you start to realize that passion?

Bob: Well I’ve always just been interested in art. I never really studied it. I never took anything technically to learn how to do it. With the mirrors you just start designing and cutting the pieces and it works out. *A group of people has started to crowd around the podium.* Give me one second.

*Bob turns around and stands up and walks over to the fart podium.*

Bob: *in a voice that is reminiscent of a circus barter* Folks, let me give you a card.

Woman: Oh, okay.

Bob: If you go to the website, you’ll find pictures and videos of this.

Woman 2: *interested* Oh, is this your work?

Bob: It is my work. It’s a permanent exhibit, it’s been here for eight years. It has been written about in The Huffington Post and The New York Times.

Woman 2: Well, thank you.

Bob: This just shows how bizarre an artist can get.

*Bob turns back to me and sits back down. He waits for me to continue with my questions.*

Me: Is there any advice you would give to someone who wants to try and make some art.

Bob: *again he takes a second to answer, but he is certain of his answer when he thinks of it* Just think about what it is that interests them and then find some way to recreate it in some art form. If they have to create a new art form to do it then they should think about it and let their imagination run rampant and see what they can do. Think what you want to do, what you want to express, and then do it, find a way to do it.

:::

Finding the Art Within

I’ve been making art for a long time. There is a very specific process that I’ve perfected. But let’s try to forget that, throw out all those preconceived notions of how art is made and instead dive right into the unknown. I went to Michael’s bought myself a brand-new canvas to sit down with and when the time presented itself, I began to paint. It might seem a bit backwards, going into it without an idea or a plan, but I was more interested to see what would naturally come out of me if I were to just let the paintbrush guide me. I will admit though, I made one fatal mistake: I turned on Frankenstein while I painted. Pro tip, if you want to paint something extremely dark and chilling to the bone, I highly recommend painting while watching Frankenstein. For those who are confused, I am talking about the 1994 remake of the original movie. An intriguing take on the original story indeed. You see, in the original story, Frankenstein’s monster, who is actually unnamed, asks for a bride because he is alone. This particular movie took that idea and ran with it. Frankenstein’s monster kills Frankenstein’s wife Elizabeth, and the doctor bring her back to life in this particular remake, similar to the way he created Frankenstein in the first place. She of course goes on to see her new grotesque appearance and promptly kills herself. What I find most interesting is that I never actually made it this far in the movie. It isn’t until now, that I look back on it and realize how similar my art piece actually is to Elizabeth.
:::

What Do You Mean?: a three step guide to finding meaning in art (a reprise)

Step one: Look

    In the Visionary Art Museum, there is one piece of art that I truly consider my favorite. It’s a statue, probably bronze, and it’s a very detailed bald man. Bolted to his back are wings. They are made of glass, the pieces probably welded together. The feathers are rainbow colored, but they’re methodically placed rows of colored glass shards, it’s not random. He is naked, save for the red thong the artist chose to put him in. It sounds odd, but it does little to take away from the piece’s effect. Above him is a sun and below him is the sea. He’s held midair, the sculpture actually moves up and down and spins around, very slowly. It brings him up, closer to the sun, only to slowly drop him back down towards the sea.

Step two: See

    The sun and sea were done by Bob, I know that much. They are both made of glass with marble accents to add color. The sun itself hides the cable that lifts and drops the man. It’s these two pieces that gave away the statue’s identity to me. The man himself is always falling. I tend to watch him rise and fall and when he spins in my direction. I stare at his face. His face looks so sad to me. He looks directly at me, neither down nor up, but out at the world. I imagine he is getting one last look at the world before he falls to his death.

Step three: Think

Icarus is the boy who flew too close to the sun. With wings made of feathers and wax, he was warned to be careful, for if he flew too high, the heat of the sun would melt his wax. Poor Icarus did not listen. He just felt so free as he flew up so high. The wax melted and his wings fell apart and he fell to his death, into the icy ocean below. I know the Greek myth like I know the back of my own hand. 

:::

Saturday, March 16th, 2:35

They’re late, going on an hour late now. It was bad enough that the interview had ended earlier than I’d anticipated, 1:15, and thus I’d already made Bob wait the 45 minutes until it was 2:00. Now the clock reads 2:40 and I have resorted to pacing. I am trying to quell my nerves. I already walked around the museum and took notes. Had I gone by myself I’d already be there, but the thought of going to a stranger’s house alone kept me from texting them to just forget it. The fact that I was Bob’s ride home made me feel even worse. I readied myself to go downstairs and apologize. I should have done it earlier, probably at 2:20 when I’d asked how close they were and received a response from my friend Cassie saying, 

I checked my phone one more time, hoping for an update. They’re apparently on the light rail now. I looked back up and there was Bob, rounding the top of the staircase. He makes his way over to where I am.

“I’m so sorry, they’re late right now. But I promise they’re coming soon.”

“It’s all right,” he says. “I just wanna get home as soon as possible.”

I nod, but don’t say anything after that, knowing I can’t promise when they’ll get here. We sit down on the bench together and fall into a comfortable silence.

“Did you know the infinity houses in Washington DC?”

I shake my head.

“Well a while ago, in DC there was this Japanese woman who came and built all these infinity mirror houses. The whole thing was sold out, but I was lucky, and I got to go. Anyway, the lines for these houses was like 30 to 35 minutes, and they only let around two people in at a time. They’d only let people stay inside for about two minutes. We were in line for longer than we were even in the house.”

I nod, prompting him to continue.

“So, me and my neighbor Roger decided to build one.”

:::

Scene 2: Music

Me: I know you were on the radio. How does it feel to be on the radio?

Bob: Like what does it feel like to be on the radio?

Me: Like how does it make you feel?

Bob: Oh, I love doing it, because I love music, and I know music. I really do know music. I was in radio broadcasting for many years, you’ll find all this out on the internet. For the radio stations announcing classical music which I love. And I do have a huge website that reviews classical recordings, and people love it. I’m not making any money out of it. But I love to do it and I write all the reviews for that. I love doing it. I used to play unusual recordings all the time.

*thin toot*

Bob: When you listen to the radio now you hear generally just the same stuff. So I used to play unusual recordings and rare recordings and people seem to love it.

Me: Can you compare your passion for music to your passion for art?

Bob: *said as though the answer is obvious* No, they are two very different things. *I try to hide my surprise, as I assumed there would be at least some connection* I just love music. You’ll see when you get to my home. I had my home built around my home entertainment center.

*More farting, one light and airy, another sharp and deep*

Bob: So, I’d have the perfect room for sound and video. And I would rather stay home and watch video operas rather than going out because it’s better than being there.

*The journalist will understand this later, when she sits in his house watching Cirque du Soleil*

:::

Saturday, March 16th, 3:10

“Do you guys want sandwiches?”

We all stop talking. I’m sure Cassie and Celia must share a look in the back of the car. They’re so confused as to who this old man really is.

“‘Cause I know this really good place right by my house. I’ll go in and order them and pay for them and you don’t even have to leave the car if you want.”

I look back at the girls.

“Do you guys want sandwiches?”

“Sure,” they both respond.

“Yeah, we’d like sandwiches,” I turn to Bob.

“I’ll tell you the way.”

:::

Finding the Art Within

So, there I am painting to my heart’s desire, and boy is it coming out dark. When I look at it all I see is blood. Probably not a good sign, but I’m interested. I don’t think I’ve ever made anything so menacing. Just off center is a face, and it’s pale and sickly green. But the shading is strange. Instead of keeping with the color scheme I used other colors, purples and blues, and were it more realistic, it might appear like bruising. The nose is awful, unrealistic, as are the lips and the one eye that actually shows. There’s a flower over the right eye, it’s yellow and doesn’t have as much detail as I want. Blood drips out of the nose and the left eye, and it’s weird because I’m not certain why I added it, but it feels right. The hair is red like the blood, but I haven’t done anything with it. The background is split in half. One side is dark the other splattered with red. I’m going for some effect, I know it, but I’m not certain what it is. I stare at it, let it sink in. Words and ideas pass through my head, but they all read as hollow, none quite hit the mark, none feel real and I hate it. I actually hate it, with a burning passion, to the point that I want to break through the canvas and destroy what I’ve made. Let’s just say that’s not an option. So, I step away, leave it for the night, maybe two, and come back to it with a plan. My own personal brand of art is about realism, but also surrealism. I like having elements that look real while the whole image itself is surreal. This piece definitely fits my general aesthetic, but something was off. Deep down I knew what was wrong. Any ideas I had about what it meant fell short because the painting itself wasn’t representative of what I do as an artist. The facial features were too big, the eye was gigantic, the nose was cartoonish, and the lips were downright awful. Certain elements, the blood and the flower, looked even more unrealistic. But I didn’t want to scrap it, I wanted to keep going; I wanted to make it better, that’s how it became a self-portrait. The image is still haunting, probably more so now. It’s my face, whether others see it or not, that is what I used as reference. But once it was done, I knew, it was clear as day what this paining represented: self-harm, insecurities, the internal battle where I beat myself up to a bloody pulp only to then feel even uglier. It is dark and haunting and raw. It stares into you with fake beauty, a sort of superficial idea of what is beautiful, right there over the right eye, a flower soaked in blood. The rest of the face is hollow, void of expression as if to represent the numbness of self-hate. Except, does it really mean any of that? I mean, I gave it that meaning, but without my explanation would anyone get that? What would they see as they stared into my cold, dead, eyes? Would they know they were mine? Probably not. Just as easily as I gave it a meaning, I could have simply said it’s scary and that’s it. 

:::

Scene 3: Military

Me: I read that you were in the military.

Bob: Yes

Me: Do you think that your time in the military has affected your art in any way?

Bob: *insistent* No way.

*I am officially out of ideas to look for something that adds meaning to his art*

:::

Saturday, March 16th, 2:35

They’re late, going on an hour late now. It was bad enough that the interview had ended earlier than I’d anticipated, 1:15, and thus I’d already made Bob wait the 45 minutes until it was 2:00. Now the clock reads 2:40 and I have resorted to pacing. I am trying to quell my nerves. I already walked around the museum and took notes. Had I gone by myself I’d already be there, but the thought of going to a stranger’s house alone kept me from texting them to just forget it. The fact that I was Bob’s ride home made me feel even worse. I readied myself to go downstairs and apologize. I should have done it earlier, probably at 2:20 when I’d asked how close they were and received a response from my friend Cassie saying, 

I checked my phone one more time, hoping for an update. They’re apparently on the light rail now. I looked back up and there was Bob, rounding the top of the staircase. He makes his way over to where I am.

“I’m so sorry, they’re late right now. But I promise they’re coming soon.”

“It’s all right,” he says. “I just wanna get home as soon as possible.”

I nod, but don’t say anything after that, knowing I can’t promise when they’ll get here. We sit down on the bench together and fall into a comfortable silence.

“Did you know the infinity houses in Washington DC?”

I shake my head.

“Well a while ago, in DC there was this Japanese woman who came and built all these infinity mirror houses. The whole thing was sold out, but I was lucky, and I got to go. Anyway, the lines for these houses was like 30 to 35 minutes, and they only let around two people in at a time. They’d only let people stay inside for about two minutes. We were in line for longer than we were even in the house.”

I nod, prompting him to continue.

“So, me and my neighbor Roger decided to build one.”

:::

Scene 2: Music

Me: I know you were on the radio. How does it feel to be on the radio?

Bob: Like what does it feel like to be on the radio?

Me: Like how does it make you feel?

Bob: Oh, I love doing it, because I love music, and I know music. I really do know music. I was in radio broadcasting for many years, you’ll find all this out on the internet. For the radio stations announcing classical music which I love. And I do have a huge website that reviews classical recordings, and people love it. I’m not making any money out of it. But I love to do it and I write all the reviews for that. I love doing it. I used to play unusual recordings all the time.

*thin toot*

Bob: When you listen to the radio now you hear generally just the same stuff. So I used to play unusual recordings and rare recordings and people seem to love it.

Me: Can you compare your passion for music to your passion for art?

Bob: *said as though the answer is obvious* No, they are two very different things. *I try to hide my surprise, as I assumed there would be at least some connection* I just love music. You’ll see when you get to my home. I had my home built around my home entertainment center.

*More farting, one light and airy, another sharp and deep*

Bob: So, I’d have the perfect room for sound and video. And I would rather stay home and watch video operas rather than going out because it’s better than being there.

*The journalist will understand this later, when she sits in his house watching Cirque du Soleil*

:::

Saturday, March 16th, 3:10

“Do you guys want sandwiches?”

We all stop talking. I’m sure Cassie and Celia must share a look in the back of the car. They’re so confused as to who this old man really is.

“‘Cause I know this really good place right by my house. I’ll go in and order them and pay for them and you don’t even have to leave the car if you want.”

I look back at the girls.

“Do you guys want sandwiches?”

“Sure,” they both respond.

“Yeah, we’d like sandwiches,” I turn to Bob.

“I’ll tell you the way.”

:::

Finding the Art Within

So, there I am painting to my heart’s desire, and boy is it coming out dark. When I look at it all I see is blood. Probably not a good sign, but I’m interested. I don’t think I’ve ever made anything so menacing. Just off center is a face, and it’s pale and sickly green. But the shading is strange. Instead of keeping with the color scheme I used other colors, purples and blues, and were it more realistic, it might appear like bruising. The nose is awful, unrealistic, as are the lips and the one eye that actually shows. There’s a flower over the right eye, it’s yellow and doesn’t have as much detail as I want. Blood drips out of the nose and the left eye, and it’s weird because I’m not certain why I added it, but it feels right. The hair is red like the blood, but I haven’t done anything with it. The background is split in half. One side is dark the other splattered with red. I’m going for some effect, I know it, but I’m not certain what it is. I stare at it, let it sink in. Words and ideas pass through my head, but they all read as hollow, none quite hit the mark, none feel real and I hated it. I actually hate it, with a burning passion, to the point that I want to break through the canvas and destroy what I’ve made. Let’s just say that’s not an option. So, I step away, leave it for the night, maybe two, and come back to it with a plan. My own personal brand of art is about realism, but also surrealism. I like having elements that look real while the whole image itself is surreal. This piece definitely fits my general aesthetic, but something was off. Deep down I knew what was wrong. Any ideas I had about what it meant fell short because the painting itself wasn’t representative of what I do as an artist. The facial features were too big, the eye was gigantic, the nose was cartoonish, and the lips were down right awful. Certain elements, the blood and the flower, looked even more unrealistic. But I didn’t want to scrap it, I wanted to keep going; I wanted to make it better, that’s how it became a self-portrait. The image is still haunting, probably more so now. It’s my face, whether others see it or not, that is what I used as reference. But once it was done, I knew, it was clear as day what this paining represented: self-harm, insecurities, the internal battle where I beat myself up to a bloody pulp only to then feel even uglier. It is dark and haunting and raw. It stares into you with fake beauty, a sort of superficial idea of what is beautiful, right there over the right eye, a flower soaked in blood. The rest of the face is hollow, void of expression as if to represent the numbness of self-hate. Except, does it really mean any of that? I mean, I gave it that meaning, but without my explanation would anyone get that? What would they see as they stared into my cold, dead, eyes? Would they know they were mine? Probably not. Just as easily as I gave it a meaning, I could have simply said it’s scary and that’s it. 

:::

Scene 3: Military

Me: I read that you were in the military.

Bob: Yes

Me: Do you think that your time in the military has affected your art in any way?

Bob: *insistent* No way.

*I am officially out of ideas to look for something that adds meaning to his art*

:::

Saturday, March 16th, 4:105

He leads us through his house, apologizing for the mess. It wasn’t that messy, much cleaner than a lot of houses I’d been in. Most of the house is dark, not many windows but a lot of low lighting. It’s all wooden furniture, and a part of me wonders how that can be comfortable.

He leads us into a room closer to the back. It’s messy, shards of glass are scattered in the corners but other than that it’s relatively clean. All around the room, hung up on the walls are art pieces. Some of them I recognize. A smaller version of the sun piece he created for Icarus is there and I smile at it knowingly. He shows us a few of his kinetic art pieces, wooden and intricate and beautiful. We watch them for a minute or two, amazed at their complexity, and then he leads us through another back room. This one is messier, but we aren’t in it for long. He leads us out a door on the right side of the house and into the backyard. The first thing I see are stairs that lead down to his underground greenhouse. I turn and there it is. It’s a shed covered in glass. There are a lot of empty spaces on the siding, but I don’t pay too much attention to it. He did say it was unfinished. 

He beckons us inside the small place. There is glass everywhere. It covers the walls and crunches under my feet on the floor. It’s a familiar sound, though I don’t think I’ve ever heard it in person until now. Bob takes his time plugging in all the lights but once they’re on he closes the door, and we are engulfed in a world of magic.

The lights are rainbow, and they reflect off of every wall. The colors shift and so do my emotions. At first there is a fiery red of excitement, which shifts to the deep blue of contemplation, to the forest green of contentedness, to bright yellow of complete and utter joy. They bubble and glisten and change and they are utterly beautiful. Every sign Bob has sent me has told me that his art doesn’t hold any deeper meanings. He makes what he makes because he thinks it is beautiful. But how could something so amazing not mean something more?

:::

What Do You Mean?: a three step guide to finding meaning in art 

What you Need:

Art

What you Do:

Think

It’s all about the context.

As people, it seems instinctive to look for meaning. It’s so easy to get caught up in this idea that the deeper meaning of art is something profound. It can be, don’t get me wrong, but maybe it’s more than that. Meaning is in the mind of the creator. Sometimes the art is just beautiful, it doesn’t have a message it’s trying to convey. It’s all about the art of creation. I create something, a piece of myself, and I share it with the world. I hope that when you look at it, you feel something. But there is no hidden message, simply a need to create something worth looking at. Isn’t that meaning enough.