Cincinnati fail

When I graduated high school, I didn’t have the moral courage to go to New York, which is what I wanted to do. Instead, a friend and I applied to the Cincinnati Art Academy. She was devastated when she received a rejection letter. That effectively ended her art career. 

I didn’t get a rejection letter or any letter from the Academy. My portfolio was so pitiful that the reviewers didn’t bother responding. Unlike my friend, the Academy’s poor judgment in no way influenced my career choice, but I was in a quandary about what to do next.

Near the end of summer, I finally got the nerve to go to New York; I had nothing else on offer. Then, an unlikely event happened. The Academy phoned to ask if I intended to accept their scholarship offer. Scholarship? What scholarship?

My father, bless his heart, believed college was a waste of time and an art career a doubly lousy waste of time. He had hidden my scholarship letter. The scholarship was miraculous; I felt I had to take it. It had never occurred to me that I, even I, might get a scholarship.

In those days, the Art Academy was housed in the Cincinnati Art Museum. Indeed, the school occupied a large portion of the museum building. The skylights on the top floor were perfect for life drawing, much like the rooms at New York’s Art Students League. For those unfamiliar with Cincinnati, the Art Museum is in the aptly-named Eden Park, adjacent to the famed Mount Adams. Mount Adams is still known for its quaint shops, popular restaurants, and fantastic views of the Ohio River and Cincinnati skyline.

This is a photo of the museum looking south toward Cincinnati. Mount Adams is in the green area just beyond the museum. The art school was in the older right-hand wing. 

By far, the best part of my Art Academy experience was the museum and the museum library. That is where my lifelong love for art museums was firmly established. 

The Art Academy library was on the first floor of the museum. Students could visit the library before the museum opened. I loved walking alone through the museum’s silent and dark rooms to the library. The art belonged to me, and I belonged to it. I was happy then, as now, to contribute my small portion to the grand tradition of Western Art represented by the artwork surrounding me. Considerations of harming the artwork were out of the question! I would have fought to protect the art!

Everything was great that fall except for one thing: I hated school! 

It wasn’t the Art Academy’s fault. I always hated school and really wanted to go to New York. Also, I developed a severe case of shyness in the middle of my senior year of high school. This development surprised me. Before then, fellow students would have characterized me as the class clown, the joker who loved to be in front of crowds. I’m not sure what caused the onset of shyness, but it exacerbated the issues I encountered at school. By Christmas, I resolved to leave school and go to New York in the spring, which I did. This decision established my reputation for being fickle and temperamental.

—

I am finally getting to the point of this long-winded post. 

During October last, we passed through Cincinnati on our way to Kentucky. I related my private museum walks to my family when heading there. I’d been back at this museum since my student days, but this visit was an opportunity to introduce familiar paintings to my family.

I get absorbed by paintings. I examine them left and right and back and forth. I imagine I look comical to visitors, something akin to the connoisseurs in Daumier’s satirical drawing. While I was answering questions from my son about a painting, a guard shouted, “STAND AWAY FOMR THAT PAINTING! YOU ARE TOO CLOSE!” I was stunned into silence. Finally, I answered, “Thank you,” which is my invariable response to rude and troublesome busybodies. Her intrusion spoiled the moment and transformed an enjoyable family experience into something almost shameful. After regaling my family with stories about the museums’ wonders, I felt especially cast down. 

As we left the room, the guard said cryptically, “You’ll set it off.”

After that unpleasantness, I was ready to cut the visit short and leave. You might say I’m too sensitive, and maybe you’re right. But I visit museums A LOT, and this was the first time a guard had acted to me in such a high-handed manner.

My wife and I wandered into the Antiquities room off the main lobby while my son and grandson visited the special Anselm Admas exhibit.  As we entered the large room, alarms sounded from every corner. The noise was deafening. We were in the center of the room, far from any of its statues. Sitting in a chair against the wall, the miserable-looking guard said sheepishly, “The system is extra sensitive today.”  That explained the other guard’s cryptic message, ‘You’ll set it [the alarm system] off.’ 

I don’t know if the museum is experiencing a rash of thefts or vandalism that might argue for strong security. If that’s it, they have a fantastic system; just walking into the room triggers loud alarms that drive visitors out. If no one visits, nothing will be vandalized, eh?

As we drove away, I thought about when I used to walk the museum halls alone and the joy the place provided, and I resolved never to go there again.