I hate art. I study art. I love art.

Haley Haas, Photo by Blake Cheek

I hate art. I study art. I love art. I hate art. I study art. I study art. I study art. I love art. In no particular order.

Walking through the 1980s–Present exhibit at the MoMA, I reacted the same way to each piece I approached: I hate that. I study art history, though. Shouldn’t this be my playground? Where are the swings? Isn’t this supposed to be fun?

I told my dad he didn’t like the piece we stood in front of together because he didn’t understand it. I hate it because I do understand it. I see parallels the artist didn’t intend — at least I don’t think they intended. Everything seems to merit hate that way.

I was standing in front of Chris Ofili etchings, cringing at the curly pubes he etched into these watercolor pages while a lady next to me said, “Aren’t the colors beautiful?” I rolled my eyes. Didn’t she see how vulgar and sexually explicit they were? No, she didn’t because she didn’t see the etchings faintly illuminated at certain angles. She didn’t know to look for these explicit references because she didn’t know Chris Ofili’s work. She enjoyed looking at the piece while I gagged. Would I have enjoyed the colors as much as she did had I not known to look for the sexual references? Did knowing too much ruin the experience for me?

I continued throughout the different rooms pondering this idea as I observed. Now, I was looking for it. What do I see in this piece that is informed by the classes I’ve taken in other subjects? I was strategically approaching the different works in the rooms looking for works, artists, and references I had knowledge of.

I walked in a room that was shockingly colorful. It looked like one of those toys people hang above a newborn baby’s crib with things hanging from it: Mike Kelly’s Deodorized Central Mass with Satellites. The different toys were collections of stuffed animals grouped by colors. Everyone around me was smiling with their kids, taking pictures and selfies with the colorful toys.

But the stuffed animals had their faces sewn into the center so all you could see was limbs hanging out of the entity. It was almost aggressive. Just because it was rainbows and colorful didn't mean it was happy. How could no one around me see how angry this work was? Why was it just me? I felt overconsumption being criticized in this work, but what really made me leave the room so quickly was that I felt the innocence of stuffed animals being robbed.

At some point in my journey through the exhibit, I started realizing that the pieces I was initially drawn to were the ones I had such a strong reaction to. Was I drawn to things I didn’t like? Was it that they didn’t live up to my expectations when I got closer? 

Maybe that’s why I like Rothko's works so much: Color Fields about ecstasy and doom. They’re the type of paintings that make people say, “I could’ve made that,” but they didn’t, and they don’t understand what they’re jumping to conclusions about. These color fields are questions and they are emotions. They’re angry and sad and satisfied at the same time. I don’t hate these because I do understand them. I see the emotions, even if I can’t pinpoint which emotion it’s about. I like Rothkos because I can see them move. I can see them.

And then Matisse. Why are his works peaceful to me? He’s dying. They are about death and have the same harsh lines that I find angry and aggressive. His Swimming Pool — that room was peaceful, calm.  There was movement and colors and peace.

Rothko’s and Matisse’s cut outs: why don’t I hate them? Maybe there’s something else besides understanding that influences the way I feel about a piece.

I think I don’t hate them because I’m not supposed to hate them. I have negative reactions to the works that are critics, the works that expose flaws in our society, the works that highlight overconsumption and oppression and racism. But works that celebrate human existence I enjoy and understand.

So that’s why I hate art: because I feel it, I understand it, I respond to it. And my response is uncomfortable with confrontation. Works of art with which I resonate with, to which I am attracted, I can’t just admire. I can’t just look. My brain subconsciously analyzes the piece and before I even realize it, I’m making connections throughout art historical movements that give the piece meaning to me.  I internalize it, I digest the art. And when I spit it back out, it’s foul tasting. But even though it’s a taste I don’t like, I wouldn’t be able to chew it and swallow it if I didn’t study it. If I didn’t study it, I wouldn’t make these connections, I wouldn’t have these understandings.