The Broad sits on a corner like an off-kilter white cube made out of perforated paper, but when we enter, the lobby swallows us inside undulating slate-gray walls. A narrow escalator disappears into the dark gray ceiling. Now that I see how big it is, I realize I should have pushed our visit back a week. I’ve got a truckload of assignments due tomorrow. But maybe what’s inside will inspire me and be worth the time I’ll lose coming here.
Bernadette and Taysha go right to the escalator, and Kevin and I hop on a few steps behind them. In the dim tunnel, it’s almost impossible to tell how long the escalator is until we emerge into the light-soaked top floor.
“Nice,” Kevin says. “Look at how they stretched the white waffle skin over the building so it acts as a translucent net to let in the light.”
His curls bob around his face like soft brown springs, and it kills me how much they remind me of the Taylors’ Labradoodle, but I’d never tell him that.
Taysha and Bernadette head over to Koons’s huge shiny tulips while Kevin disappears around a corner. I walk the room and pass a dozen paintings that don’t interest me enough to stop. Contemporary art is about ideas, but there are moments like now when I feel incapable of grasping its genius.
I can lose myself in a portrait like people lose themselves in a book, wondering about the person it portrays. But this thing I swear is a car hood?
Maybe Krell can sense my lack of reverence and that’s why he can’t stand me.
I lean in to read the descriptive panel beside what looks even more like a car hood now that I’m directly in front of it. According to the museum staff, the piece “derives its form and materiality from the automobile.” In other words, it’s supposed to look like a car hood.
I roll my eyes, because I’ll never understand why this is art, and as I turn away, catch Bernadette watching me. My neck prickles and I’m flooded with the feeling she was watching me the whole time I stood there.
I can’t get out of the gallery fast enough. Disliking contemporary art is almost a crime at CALINVA, and I can’t help wondering if Bernadette’s so competitive she’d drop a casual comment about my disdain to one of the faculty.
I keep going until I reach a gallery on the other side of the floor that’s dominated by a giant dining room table. Everyone in the room is caught up in the Alice in Wonderland effect of walking underneath Therrien’s oversize table and chairs, but I stand to the side. Seriously?
It’s a giant table and chairs. What’s the big deal? I startle as Kevin plops his arm over my shoulder, and his slim, muscular body touches mine. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to surprise you,” he says.
His arm is draped over me as lazily as a dog flopped on a couch. “It’s okay,” I say, relaxing.
He tips his head so it almost rests on mine and whispers, “You really hate contemporary art, don’t you?”
“No, I don’t,” I insist.
“Bull. Your eyes pass right over this stuff. No connection whatsoever.”
I scan the room, making absolutely sure Bernadette isn’t nearby.
“Don’t worry. I’m not going to out you,” Kevin says. He’s smiling and I can’t resist smiling back.
Kevin’s not the type who plays mind games, so I decide to trust him on this one. “Okay, if I’m being honest, I feel like a lot of contemporary art is bull, but if you tell anyone, and I do mean anyone—”
“My lips are sealed. I promise.” He slides his arm off my shoulder. “I bet you can find at least one piece in this place that you like—or feel is worth looking at for more than five seconds.”
“Sure. You’re on. Winner gets what?”
“A taco from the truck out front.”
“Oh, big stakes.”
We roam the third floor past the blanket woven of red metal strips and the Warhol silkscreen of the electric chair. Kevin seems to be watching me for the slightest flicker, and when we get to Koons’s Balloon Dog, he takes my hand and makes me stop and look a moment longer. I gaze at our distorted reflections in the shiny blue steel dog that stands taller than us.
“Anything?” Kevin says.
“Nope.”
“Is it because you don’t like dogs—an emblem of loyalty and companionship?”
“It’s a balloon dog,” I toss back. “An emblem of circuses and scary birthday-party clowns.”
“But Koons has transformed the humble balloon dog, and by enlarging it and giving it permanence has made us reconsider what we believe about it.”
I double-check the gallery for Bernadette and she’s nowhere in sight. “Koons,” I hiss, “did not transform the humble balloon dog. That job went to the one hundred poorly paid assistants who slaved away in his SoHo studio manufacturing this blue dog—not to mention the four identical ones in orange, yellow, red, and pink.”
“You believe that blue is the only true color for the balloon dog.”
I’m shaking my head and trying not to laugh, because despite the ridiculous turn this argument has taken, I want to get my point across. “No, I’m saying that for me, the artist has to do more than have an idea and let someone else make it.”
“You want to see the artist’s hand in the work?”
“I want to feel like it meant something to them. It’s hard for me to relate when a piece is essentially about an idea. I want to feel an emotional connection.”
“So we can cross Koons off the list?”
“Yep.”
Kevin lets go of my hand. “Come on,” he says, and his knuckles brush mine. “Let’s find an artist you can connect with.”
Two rooms away, I find myself staring into a Basquiat. The faces of two horn players shine out of the dark. Scribbled words repeat on the black background, and a skull hangs between the men. I soak into the painting as Kevin explains that the words are song titles and a child’s name. And in the dark, disjointed work, I see the echoes of the jazz the men play and the artist’s personal rhythm.
“Am I wrong or do I perceive an emotional connection?” Kevin says.
“You are not wrong,” I answer. We stand side by side taking a last look. “Damn,” I say. “I owe you a taco.”
It’s after two when Kevin and I come out of the Broad, but Taysha and Bernadette are waiting to view Kusama’s Infinity Mirror Rooms. The sidewalk is still packed with people trying to get into the museum, and the line for the El Gato truck out front stretches almost to the corner. But Kevin doesn’t care how long he has to wait. “El Gato’s tacos are legendary. We’re not leaving.”
“So, what about you? What did you like in there?”
“In the Broad? Nothing much. I’m not a big fan of contemporary art.”
I smack his arm. “Are you kidding me?”
Kevin laughs and falls out of line. “Stop, stop,” he says, holding up his hands in surrender.
We shuffle forward, and the smell of grilling onions, chilis, and meat makes my mouth water.
“Fine,” I say. “So what does inspire you?”
Kevin reaches for his phone and taps the screen. “It’s a sculpture called Kinetic Rain. I saw it when I was thirteen and we were going through the Shanghai airport. I couldn’t stop watching it, so we almost missed our plane to Beijing.”