"You're kidding, right?"
The man stood tall, his chest puffed out, pointing down at the piece of art on the ground.
"Don't you think it's a bit ridiculous that the museum paid for this? In the same place where Monet's hang?"
I had to admit, he had a point. Down there, on the ground, was the piece of art. That's what they called it, anyway. It was black-and-white checkerboard tile. It looked like somebody had cut a square out of a kitchen floor and placed it on the ground.
"But think about it," the small, old tour guide said, "how many of you were afraid to step on it, just because you knew it was a piece of art? But the artist wants you to step on this piece. Isn't that interesting?"
It was interesting. Who knew? Tile on the ground. Art. Cool. I liked this guide with her crazy red lipstick and red dress and red shoes. She was fun.
But the man wasn't satisfied. He huffed and puffed and tried to blow the art down. But there it was, sitting on the floor, overpriced and overvalued. And it drove him crazy.
The tour guide changed her plans and took us to another piece. On the wall was a completely black painting. On it was a date written in white. "October 31, 1978." That was it. This time, I was pretty convinced that it was just plain ridiculous. But then, in a flash of red and white, my world was rocked yet again.
"For his entire life, the artist of this piece has painted the same thing. Now, think about it. Every day he has painted the present date on a canvas. Isn't that something?"
"So, is this, like, in other museums as well?" the man asked, his face contorted in frustration.
"Yes," the woman said, a tight smile across her face.
Somehow, the idea that someone could make a career of this really bothered people. This time, it wasn't just the man that complained. Half of the group seemed to be grumbling. The tile was okay. At least that guy had only scammed once. But this guy, he made a living off this stuff.
The tour guide tried to explain how the piece symbolized the importance of every day, reminding us of the dedication a project like this would take. But she had a revolution on her hands.
Half of the beauty of going to a modern art gallery is watching people's reactions. They complain, they frown, they furrow their brows. Some, like me, try to nod and pretend they understand what it's all about. Every now and then you hear a wonderful line like, "The belly button is so powerful!"
In the end, though, any piece of art is just a piece of art. A painting on a wall, a piece of music. or even a lousy blog. Maybe they're all crazy. Maybe we're being scammed. Maybe.
But maybe there's more to consider. Maybe complaining is man's way of banging his head against a wall so he can make some noise. Maybe when we stop banging and look deeper, we can see the message someone is trying to send. Maybe we can look beyond the message and see a truth that even the artist might not have meant to create.
And maybe, just maybe, that is how we were meant to live our lives. Instead of searching for the darkness in the light, perhaps we were meant to look for the truth in the lies. To see G‑d everywhere we look. Even if what we're looking at is a kitchen floor or a giant clock.
Or maybe we should just stay in the Monet exhibit where beauty shines on us without any personal effort.
Maybe.
