UNCULTURED, UNBOTHERED

I’ve finally accepted it: I’m uncouth. Art museums bore me, operas make me fidget, and ballet (unless it’s the Nutcracker) feels like torture in tights. My sister swoons over brushstrokes while I’m muttering, “A monkey could’ve painted that.”

I’ve always suspected I was missing some mysterious cultural gene. You know—the one that makes people linger in art museums, whispering reverently about brushstrokes and light. Or the one that compels them to sit still for three hours of opera without wondering how long until intermission snacks. Ballet? Except for the Nutcracker (because who can resist sugar plum fairies at Christmas?), I’ve never made it past the polite clap.

(We took Kate every year through grade school.  Get all dressed up, have dinner at a fancy restaurant and waited patiently to see how they would feature Mother Ginger and her polichinelles)

It’s not that I dislike art altogether. I adore Monet—his water lilies make me want to step right into the canvas and settle in with a picnic basket. (I was lucky enough to visit Giverny and enjoyed my first fresh fig with Janet and Jonathan on OUR picnic there). Van Gogh’s swirls, Rembrandt’s shadows, even Grandma Moses with her little farm scenes—I’ll take them all. 

But then I round a corner and come face to face with a Jackson Pollock, and I think: Really? Buckets of paint tossed across a canvas? I’m fairly sure my grandkids—or possibly an energetic Labrador—could create something similar in under ten minutes.

My sister, of course, is the complete opposite. She glides through galleries with genuine delight, absorbing every artistic nuance while I’m calculating how many steps until the gift shop. They plan vacations around museum visits. We grew up in the same house, so I wonder—did my indifference to “high culture” come from the fact that we couldn’t afford admission back then? Or is it just that my thrills come from different corners of life—like a great Costco sample run, a perfectly toasted pecan, or a good belly laugh in the kitchen?

Sometimes I feel “uncouth,” but more often than not, I feel perfectly content. I may not swoon over Pollock’s paint splatters, but I can whip up a mean quiche, laugh at my own clumsiness, and treasure the art of everyday living. Maybe the real masterpiece is simply knowing what you like—and what you’re happy to skip.