Here and There
Marissa DIttman
I went to the Anderson Gallery. Not because I knew anything about the artist, or have a major
interest in contemporary art. Mainly I went because I was running out of time. I had planned to go to a
gallery or museum in Washington D.C. while I had been home over the weekend. It should have been
easy to do. Just get on the metro and enjoy the ride. But alas, like usual, I got caught up in my projects
over the weekend, and never had the time to go. But I wasn’t left without options. The Anderson
Gallery. It’s on campus, and even better, it was free. So I went, alone, before class, simply to get it
done. “I just want to get this done.” I thought the entire way over. I wasn’t dreading the visit, but my
week was already swamped with schoolwork. I just wanted to get it done, to get it over with, and
maybe, possibly, get a chance to get some decent sleep.
The walk was cold, and somewhat dreary. It was supposed to snow that earlier that morning,
and maybe it had. I had slept in late, a result of staying up equally as late the night before, desperately
trying to finish a SolidWorks homework. My only clue as to whether the snow had come, was a
snowball sitting on a bench in the Shafer courtyard, and an twig, that had been stuck in a snow pot. I
passed these two objects laughing to myself, somebody had fun making them.
Behind Hibbs Hall, I found a little stone wall with a gate in it. Beside the gate was a sign
“Anderson Gallery.” I had made it, and had managed to find the gallery without getting lost. So I went
in, happy to escape the cold.
At the entrance to the gallery was a group of art on the wall. Very colorful, and more than just
slightly abstract. I floundered at first. How am I supposed to write about such abstract art? I love art,
love making art, but I have never been especially successful with speaking about, or for, art. I can
describe to you what it looks like, and maybe venture a guess what it means. Usually, I look at a piece,
think “Oh, that’s pretty.” And move on. But this time, I needed to stop, to look, to appreciate, and to
think about. I needed to be able to not only describe the work, but why I chose it. So the question was,
which one would I choose? The only way to decide was to start looking. So I did. I started on the first
floor, and worked my way up, all the way up to the fourth floor.
On the first floor was the smallest room, but not by any means the smallest exhibit. The room
was filled with statues of Buddha. Each statue was a different size and material, and even included a
little ceramic Buddha on a spinning table. In the corner, behind all the pieces, was a small speaker
emitting sounds of a conversation. I tried to understand what was being discussed but could never
clearly hear the words.
The second floor was just as quiet as the first. The only sound was that of the speakers that had
been placed in each room. Other than the repetitive conversations and music from the speakers the
gallery was silent. The only two other people there was the student employee at the front desk, and
another student reading on the second floor. The exhibits on this floor were just as varied as the
exhibits on the first. A few interested me. One in particular was a photograph of water that had been
wrinkled and textured, giving movement to a static image. But still, none of the pieces of art I had seen
really made me stop to think. So I continued on my way, to the last, and top floor of the gallery.
As I stepped off the very top stairs I looked into the room to the left. The room was fairly large,
and the sound of melancholy music drifted from it. The song reminded me of a music box, a metallic,
repeating sound. Over the music was the sound of a man talking, which at the time I couldn’t
understand. The back wall, directly across from the door was covered in a huge photo that had been cut
into squares and separating, creating the illusion of looking out the window. On the floor of the room
was a massive instillation. The instillation was made up of dozens of little plastic houses spread across
the center of the room, leaving just enough area for people to walk around the edge. The houses
themselves were made of sheets of clear ridged plastic, some tinted a blue-gray, and every single one
had an image on the side of them. Each of the houses was set on a stack of wooden board printed with
a news article.
I walked around the room and wondered at all the images. They were all different. Some had
images of flowers on them, another had a ruler, and yet another had a set of glasses. I even recognized
some of the images as parts of other installations, such as the spinning Buddha, or the ear from a piece
on the second floor.
About halfway around my circuit of the room I actually stopped to read the article. It only took
me a moment to read the headline, but it left me in shock. It was an obituary. Mind you, it wasn’t one
of the short obituaries you commonly see. It was a declaration of the death of a singer. The title was
almost ambiguous, it stated the person’s name, their occupation, but not their cause of death. I looked
closer, trying to figure out how the person died. But I couldn’t see. The main body of the article was
almost entirely covered by the house sitting atop it. I continued to read the article headlines as I walked
the rest of the way around the room. Each house was stacked on a dozen or more articles, each
positioned so you could see the headline, but not the body of the text. They were all notices of death,
all for people of supposed importance. Politicians, musicians, activists, authors, writers.
This started to make me wonder. Why did the artist choose these people, do these people have
meaning to him beyond their public stature. Is it something about how they died, or was it something
they did in life? Why are they grouped up the way they are? What do the images mean? It started
becoming something like a puzzle to me.
Still pondering these questions I completed my circuit. As I came back around by the door, I
looked for the first time at the plaque stating the name of the exhibit. “Here and There.” Another
question, another puzzle. What did that mean? Was it talking about how we are here, then when we
die we aren’t?
I thought this over while I sat on the floor by the entrance. The music still played on a loop, still
eerie. But now, inside the room I could make out what was being said. “You’re such a pest.” “Who
the hell are you anyway?” “What is it you want?” I sat, now even more confused than before. What
was that supposed to mean?
On my way back out of the gallery, I stopped by a plaque near the front desk. It had the
author’s name, the title of the exhibit, and a short biography. “Myron Helfgott, An Inventory of My
thoughts.” His work tried to activate the viewer’s perceptual role and the psychological self-portrait.
This gave me a little clue as to the meaning behind the other works. But still I felt like I was left with a
whole list of questions, but no answers.