Romans, Cowboys, and Rude People

After the Christianity and Literature Conference in Shawnee, Oklahoma, last weekend, my husband and I drove on to Oklahoma City to spend the night and see a few sights. (Terry’s not much interested in literature, but there was a huge horse sale going on in Shawnee that kept him entertained.) After checking into our hotel room, we headed straight for the Oklahoma City Museum of Art to view their current exhibit “Roman Art from the Louvre.” We saw full length marble statues—of Caligula and Trajan, busts of Marcus Aurelius and Tiberius, reliefs, mosaics, and lintels. We saw jewelry, funeral urns, and an intricately carved sarcophagus. I think the mosaics were my favorite. The colors are still so beautiful, and I can’t imagine the skill and patience it takes to turn all those little-bitty puzzle pieces into a huge work of art. The statues were really fascinating, the hair painstakingly detailed, the togas draping so fluidly I wanted to reach out and touch them. As beautiful as they were, though, after going to Italy a couple of years ago and seeing the work of Michelangelo, even I could tell these sculptures weren’t anywhere close. I admired these, but when I stood in front of Michelangelo’s David, I cried.

We left the museum and walked the few blocks to view the Oklahoma City National Memorial, a tribute to both the victims and survivors of the April 19, 1995 bombing. The memorial is beautiful and moving, with the Gates of Time at each end framing the moment of disaster, its empty chair for each victim facing the Reflecting Pool, an incongruously peaceful space to contemplate an act of terrorism. As I stood there, thinking about what had happened in this place, I found it almost impossible to believe that one human being could, with full intent, do this to another, and I thought of the lines from Robert Burns’ poem, “From Man was made to Mourn: A Dirge, 1785”:

“Man's inhumanity to man
Makes countless thousands mourn!”

The next day, we visited the National Cowboy & Western Heritage Museum. I never imagined there were that many types of barbed wire! You think I’m kidding, but there was a whole room devoted to it—drawers and drawers of it, categorized by number of strands, size of strands, number of barbs, size of barbs, types of barbs. Who knew? There were firearms displays, rodeo exhibits, saddles and tack, a Western Frontier section with Native American artifacts, military paraphernalia, and the tools of hunters and trackers. There was a Cowgirl photo exhibit, a Western Performers gallery with dime novels, movie posters, and a larger-than-life statue of John Wayne. They had paintings and sculpture by Frederick Remington, Charles Russell, Albert Bierstadt, and William R. Leigh. And, right before we left, we walked through a reconstructed circa 1900 Western cattle town, complete with its own saloon, school, church, newspaper, and blacksmith’s shop. So in the space of twenty four hours, we toured ancient Rome and the Old West. Not bad for a mini-vacation.

Okay, I’ve talked about Romans and Cowboys. Now we get to rude people. To me, viewing a work of art is a lot like reading a great piece of literature. You have to be able to concentrate, to focus, to enter that world, to get the most out of the experience. I think most people would agree. The Museum of Art was quite crowded, but most people viewed a work, read the placard, and moved on as quickly as they could to let the next person also have the pleasure. If they talked at all, it was in a quiet whisper in the ear of the person next to them. But a few patrons just didn’t get it. One young man seemed to be delivering a lecture to his girlfriend in front of every statue or lintel. I couldn’t tell whether or not she was enjoying it, but it was clear that the rest of the people there were not.

At the Western Museum, one couple blithely viewed the exhibits while their children ran, whooped, and hollered in the next room. (I really appreciated it when the security guard tracked the parents down and told them to control their children.) This same family traipsed all over the grounds, perfectly assured that the “Keep off the Grass” signs were not intended for them. An older woman, convinced alike that the “Turn Off Cell Phones” sign didn’t apply to her, let hers ring repeatedly throughout the Museum, interminably fumbling in her purse to press a button to stop the ringing each time, but never actually TURNING THE PHONE OFF. One couple discussed everything they saw, loudly and at length, as if they had each gallery to themselves.

I simply cannot understand this type of behavior. If the sign asks me to turn off my phone, I do it right then. If it says to stay off the grass, I obey. I always try to be aware of others and make sure I don’t unnecessarily block something they are also trying to view. If my husband and I talk, we whisper quietly. When our children were young, we took them to museums and other arts events, but always with the admonitions: “Stay right here beside me!” and “Be very quiet. Other people do not want to hear you.” These warnings worked because our children knew the consequences of not heeding—and it wasn’t just an endlessly repeated refrain of “Now, Momma told you . . .” There were physical consequences for misbehavior, something which has amazing results: You can take your children out in public and they actually behave. What a radical idea.