{"id":4807,"date":"2025-01-25T17:12:56","date_gmt":"2025-01-25T07:12:56","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/mountainashchapter.com.au\/?p=4807"},"modified":"2025-01-25T17:12:56","modified_gmt":"2025-01-25T07:12:56","slug":"california-one-2-the-moma-in-sf-hearst-castle-and-the-getty-center","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/mountainashchapter.com.au\/?p=4807","title":{"rendered":"California One: 2. The MOMA in SF, Hearst Castle and the Getty Center"},"content":{"rendered":"\n

We are standing in front of a group of giant ceramic pumpkins on the third floor of the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. They are glazed and quite pretty, plump orange bellies, curly green stalks. Probably needed a giant kiln. I can see the how. I just can\u2019t see the why.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat do you think?\u201d I am trying. Gamely. Trying.

\u201cI think it\u2019s a pumpkin,\u201d my ten year old son says. He has been bribed with bubble tea at the end of this expedition, which is the only reason for his stunning lack of regular complaint and anarchy.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cUh-huh,\u201d I say, nodding. Let\u2019s try for some insight. \u201cAnd what does it say to you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt says \u2018pumpkin\u2019,\u201d he replies patiently.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Well. I accept defeat. There\u2019s been a lot of defeat as we travel the floors of modern art. I am not a modern artist. Nor am I an ancient artist. In fact, I\u2019m quite artistically useless in all eras. I\u2019ve never drawn a cat which couldn\u2019t be mistaken for a cow. I have no idea what anything means. I just don\u2019t want my kids beholden to my own limitations.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I don\u2019t know what art is, but I know what a pumpkin is.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cFantastic,\u201d I say with determination. We\u2019re now in front of a canvas with a grid on it. \u201cWhat does this one say to you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt says we should have stayed in Australia.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

More determination is necessary. I stride the maze of rooms with ruthless gusto, my family trailing despondently in my wake.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

By the fifth floor, our feet are aching. We sit in front of a video on loop, listening to a Chinese-American photographer tell his story. He\u2019s rather funny, to my surprise. He grew up in SF, visited China, took thousands of pictures but held only a few close to his heart. I know what that\u2019s like, a foot across two cultures, belonging to nowhere. I\u2019m not sure how he makes a living. Do people buy his photos? Often enough to feed himself?<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWould you like to become a photographic artist?\u201d I ask.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMaybe!\u201d says the baby, my five year old son. My eldest stares out the window, into the great open expanse of the world outside this museum which holds his bubble tea.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On the sixth floor there is a bridge of light, thousands of coloured glass chips creating a mosaic of hues. The little one runs back and forth across the glass. Just beyond, a shimmering curtain of translucent glass beads invites a game of hide and seek.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat does it say to you?\u201d I ask them both, but they\u2019re wrapped up in the beads and don\u2019t hear me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There\u2019s an embroidered jellyfish, and hyper-realistic canvases that look like you can step into them. I don\u2019t know how they do that. There\u2019s a 30-foot moving stingray and an entire wall of graffiti.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s just vandalism,\u201d I suggest.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo it\u2019s not!\u201d my eldest son says. I forgot, he\u2019s doing street art as an elective. He was pissed off when he discovered that no actual street art would be occurring as part of the class \u2013 I think he had high hopes of being given a spray can and let loose on the underpass \u2013 but apparently he\u2019s not choosing the side of law and order just yet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

On the seventh floor, we walk into a musical installation \u2013 more than a dozen videos, musicians playing in completely separate rooms \u2013 synched perfectly so that they are playing a single piece of music. The chorus is a weird phrase in English, a collection of semi-random words repeated so often and intensely I wonder if they\u2019re code for something.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI know these guys! They\u2019re Icelandic,\u201d says my husband.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Ah, that explains that then. We sit in a huge room in the dark, watching cellos, guitar, violins, drums and an occasional cannon blast. My husband is ecstatic. I don\u2019t know what my kids have gotten out of this, but at least he\u2019s happy. After twenty minutes of Icelandic warbling, my ten year old gets to his feet and joins in. \u201cBuuuuuuuuubb-ble teeeeeeeaa,\u201d he howls.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The second assay is six days and 241 miles later. Hearst Castle sits at the very heart of the California coastline, gazing west out over the sapphire waters of the Pacific Ocean, the tail of Big Sur mountain range rising up behind it. We park next to the tourist centre and are taken up to the castle by bus.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIs there bubble tea at the top?\u201d the kids want to know.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo. Hush.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We are given a tour guide, erupting out of the sea of orange blossoms like a dapperly-turned out Venus. This castle, she desperately wants us to know, is not what it seems (a testament to hubris in the roaring twenties) but one of the great works of humanity by a wonderful man, William Randolph Hearst.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We trail across spectacular views from every aspect, while the tour guide outlines the forward-thinking visionary that Hearst was. We know this because he employed actual women to write his magazines, usually about woman-stuff like housekeeping and babies and staying svelte and cheerful while your husband cheats on you.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hearst collected art from around the world, but the real draw here is the architecture. The castle is a blend of real and fake, the gaps hastily pasted over in a convincing facade. The inside is heavy and medieval, but the gardens are a triumph \u2013 lush and fragrant, a serene blend of formal and relaxed. In one courtyard, a statue of the Egyptian goddess Sekhmet stands, black and pitted by time and weather.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis statue is an antiquity, estimated to be 3,500 years old,\u201d our tour guide says.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Wow. I think about the hands that carved this, hands belonging to an artist who lived in a time so far distant, it almost seems make-believe. No name or image endures of that human being. Only this creation.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat will be remembered of us, three thousand years from now?\u201d I ask the boys. They are playing with the fountain in the sunlight, and don\u2019t care to ponder questions of mortality and eternity.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I don\u2019t know what art is, but it would be nice to have a piece of me live forever.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

Hearst collected people like he collected exotic animals, poets, politicians, zebras, polar bears, starlets and cattle all herded together for their entertainment value. His wife gave him an improbable number of children before he parked her somewhere on the east coast and hosted lavish parties here with his new starlet. He went bankrupt before the castle was finished, which I had already assumed since the polar bears.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBears is expensive,\u201d I say, quoting Paddington.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI want to go to London next,\u201d says my youngest, a die-hard Paddington fan.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

London will have to wait. The last stop for my budding art aficionados will be the Getty Center in Los Angeles. A cunning little tram lifts us carefully above the smog and pollution to the giant galleries, glass and chrome sparking in the sun. I was here at the age of twenty, improbably thin and insecure. I think I was wearing a hat. I try to catch a glimpse of her, my former self, shrinking in past doorways, unwilling to take up space.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cBOOBS!\u201d shrieks the baby, overcome with admiration with a Renaissance representation of the female form.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I feel like I\u2019m doing something right. Room spills into room, portraits, sculptures, photographs, antiquities, architecture, every new piece is a treasure. Renoir lives here, Degas, Van Gogh. A painting of a spectacularly beautiful French dame who seduced royalty and was an infamous spy. A photograph of an ancient, hauntingly twisted oak, where hangings were rumoured to have taken place among its branches.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

There\u2019s a special exhibit all about blood, which the little one adores. He laughs over a glass case of ancient blood-letting devices. We find out that the portrait of DNA is beautiful all by itself. We move on.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The kids mosey around, poking at one thing, turning their back on another. I\u2019m not sure what they\u2019re getting out of this. If they\u2019re getting anything out of this. But it\u2019s important. Somehow. My husband takes a thousand pictures of 400 year old parquetry. It takes hours.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I sigh, and buy everybody fizzy drinks. I hope the sugar gives us energy, but it makes us cranky instead. We move through impressive formal gardens, where a small girl on a microphone defiantly delivers her spoken word performance. Like so much in America, it\u2019s both abysmal and heartfelt, and we can\u2019t help but applaud.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cNo more art!\u201d My eldest son declares. His arms are crossed and he looks ready to kick something, but we go back in to the galleries anyway.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThis one!\u201d the little one howls with glee, and spreads his arms up as if to hug the canvas. As he wants, I take his photo. \u201cIt\u2019s lots of blobs, but also a building.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cThat\u2019s right,\u201d I say tiredly. My feet ache again. \u201cA few hundred years ago people started painting in blobs, to catch the quality of light better. They called it Impressionism.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cHow do blobs catch the light?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know.\u201d I really don\u2019t know. \u201cDoes this look like morning blobs or evening blobs to you?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cIt\u2019s sunrise,\u201d he says with supreme confidence.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

The final gallery is a gift shop. \u201cWe buy nothing!\u201d I shout as usual, as my family ignores me. My eldest son moves past the scarves and souvenirs, the pencils and paints, and stops, quivering, in front of the book shelves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cWhat is it?\u201d I ask, but then I see it too. An enormous book, black with embossed silver letters, 170 pages, full colour. The L.A. Graffiti Black Book.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t care,\u201d he says, so I buy it.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I don\u2019t know what art is, but I do know when my kids are lying.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

We\u2019re falling asleep in the uber on the way home. \u201cWhat was your favourite piece?\u201d I ask, but my eldest son ignores me. He\u2019s clutching the book to his chest, staring out the car window, taking in the spray-paint galleries on the underpasses of Los Angeles.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cMy blob painting,\u201d says the little one, taking possession of everything in the world that he loves.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

I pull up the photo I took on my phone. I\u2019ve caught the museum label next to it, and I zoom in on it. It\u2019s The Portal of Rouen Cathedral in Morning Light<\/em>, by Claude Monet.<\/p>\n\n\n\n

\u201cI don\u2019t know art, my darling,\u201d I say. \u201cBut maybe you do.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n

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We are standing in front of a group of giant ceramic pumpkins on the third floor of the San Francisco Museum of Modern Art. They …<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":2,"featured_media":4821,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"advanced_seo_description":"","jetpack_seo_html_title":"","jetpack_seo_noindex":false,"jetpack_seo_schema_type":"","_jetpack_newsletter_access":"","_jetpack_dont_email_post_to_subs":false,"_jetpack_newsletter_tier_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paywalled_content":false,"_wpcom_ai_launchpad_first_post":false,"_jetpack_feature_clip_id":0,"_jetpack_memberships_contains_paid_content":false,"footnotes":"","jetpack_publicize_message":"{title}\n\n{excerpt}\n\n{url}","jetpack_publicize_feature_enabled":true,"jetpack_social_post_already_shared":true,"jetpack_social_options":{"image_generator_settings":{"template":"highway","default_image_id":0,"font":"","enabled":false},"version":2},"_wpas_customize_per_network":false,"jetpack_post_was_ever_published":false},"categories":[120,7],"tags":[626,662,641,657,660,661,394,658,333,645,659,8,275,644],"class_list":["post-4807","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-memory-book","category-travelarium","tag-america","tag-art-writing","tag-california","tag-california-one","tag-getty","tag-getty-center","tag-graffiti","tag-hearst-castle","tag-impressionism","tag-los-angeles","tag-moma","tag-mountain-ash-chapter","tag-painting","tag-san-francisco"],"jetpack_publicize_connections":[],"jetpack_likes_enabled":true,"jetpack_sharing_enabled":true,"jetpack_shortlink":"https:\/\/wp.me\/pff1uY-1fx","jetpack-related-posts":[{"id":4717,"url":"https:\/\/mountainashchapter.com.au\/?p=4717","url_meta":{"origin":4807,"position":0},"title":"California One: 1. Driving Highway One in a Silver Cadillac","author":"Elissa McKay","date":"November 15, 2024","format":false,"excerpt":"\u201cIt\u2019s not a Ford.\u201d \u201cWhat are you talking about?\u201d \u201cIt\u2019s not a Ford.\u201d These are not words I want to hear. We have just struggled up three flights of stairs with all our luggage in tow. We have wandered the third floor parking lot like Moses in the desert. 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But what most people don\u2019t know is they\u2019re confusing modern art and contemporary art; they\u2019re two different genres, and about 150 years apart from one another. What I\u2019m looking at now, is contemporary art. 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With crusty bread and hot, dripping butter, and the company of my dear sweet partner.\u00a0Correction; ex-partner.\u00a0\u00a0\u2026","rel":"","context":"In "Stories"","block_context":{"text":"Stories","link":"https:\/\/mountainashchapter.com.au\/?cat=5"},"img":{"alt_text":"","src":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/mountainashchapter.com.au\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/09\/hans-eiskonen-qTxwKHZwl6M-unsplash-scaled.jpg?fit=1200%2C800&ssl=1&resize=350%2C200","width":350,"height":200,"srcset":"https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/mountainashchapter.com.au\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/09\/hans-eiskonen-qTxwKHZwl6M-unsplash-scaled.jpg?fit=1200%2C800&ssl=1&resize=350%2C200 1x, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/mountainashchapter.com.au\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/09\/hans-eiskonen-qTxwKHZwl6M-unsplash-scaled.jpg?fit=1200%2C800&ssl=1&resize=525%2C300 1.5x, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/mountainashchapter.com.au\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/09\/hans-eiskonen-qTxwKHZwl6M-unsplash-scaled.jpg?fit=1200%2C800&ssl=1&resize=700%2C400 2x, https:\/\/i0.wp.com\/mountainashchapter.com.au\/wp-content\/uploads\/2022\/09\/hans-eiskonen-qTxwKHZwl6M-unsplash-scaled.jpg?fit=1200%2C800&ssl=1&resize=1050%2C600 3x"},"classes":[]},{"id":2183,"url":"https:\/\/mountainashchapter.com.au\/?p=2183","url_meta":{"origin":4807,"position":4},"title":"Baked Potatoes","author":"Elissa McKay","date":"August 30, 2022","format":false,"excerpt":"What I love about baked potatoes is that they bend to your will, or, more accurately, your fridge. Whatever random semi-expired leftover ingredients you can scrounge in the back of your fridge, there you are. Bacon, capers, parsley, zucchini, fish, onions, all of it can go in! 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