Thursday November 19 2009
When we lived in NYC, I couldn't help but feel somewhat superior to people who didn't live there. It was just so cool being at the center of the universe that it was unimaginable to live anywhere else. And of course I thought we'd neve leave. But then I moved to the Berkshires. And what do you know but once again I began to develop a sense of what I'll call "locational superiority." The Berkshires are the absolute best place to live, the most beautiful, the most cultural, the nicest and most interesting people. To the exclusion of everywhere else.
This road trip, though, has given me me a new perspective. There are lots of "best places to live" in the U.S., and Indianapolis is high on my list as one of the best. (that's a sentence I never thought I'd write) I don't know the shenanigans over how the NCAA moved its headquarters from KCMO to Indianapolis, but it's easy for me to see why they did (all due respect to KCMO).
It's easy to get around, it hasn't given up on its historic neighborhoods, and it puts private and public money into cultural endeavors for the public. I stayed at a charming little bed and breakfast in the Chatham Arch neighborhood, built originally in the mid-19th century, gentrified in the past several decades by a large, dedicated and respected gay community. The couple who owns the inn are retired school professionals who lived in suburban Hartford for some years, and who returned to Indianapolis to retire. They're active in the Chatham Arch Neighborhood Association, one of a number of neighborhood associations in the city that raise private money to beautify their commuities.
I was touched when I learned that an elderly gay couple who lived in an era not as open as ours who were so thrilled to see the neighborhood developed by gays that when they died they left over $1 million to the Chatham Arch Neighborhood Association. Now that's commitment!
I was awakened both mornings I was at the inn far earlier than I would like by construction noise on the street. The project--completing a link to the 7 1/2 mile urban bike and pedestrian greenway that winds through the city. Like Bloomington, Indianapolis is becoming a city of bikers, facilitated in part by a government that provides money to build the appropriate roads and adorn them with public art. The Indianapolis greenway hooks up to a 150-mile cross-state National Road Heritage Trail for bikers and walkers.
I missed it but last weekend was the opening of the Indianapolis Winter Farmers Market, held every Saturday from November through sometime in the spring (when the summer markets open). There are dozens of vendors. Several thousand people showed up for the opening last Saturday.
Urban gardens are a big deal in Indianapolis, much like what is developing in Louisville. So one of the outcomes of this road trip adventure is to curb my locational elitism. There's a lot to like out here.
Showing posts with label Indianapolis. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Indianapolis. Show all posts
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Eiteljorg Museum of American Indians and Western Art
Tuesday November 17 2009
It's a dark and rainy day, the perfect kind to spend in a beautiful museum. Particularly one filled with engaging art and artifacts. Like the Eiteljorg Museum of American Indians and Western Art in Indianapolis. Founded 20 years ago by a local philanthropist who had a lifetime interest in Native Americans and their art, the museum is beautifully designed and laid out. But like all museums, it's the art that counts. And as a longtime devotee of Western American art, I fell in love.
The first floor is devoted to Western American art, dozens, perhaps hundreds, of Remingtons (both paintings and bronzes) and work by many other artists portraying Native Americans. The Remington that stopped my heart is entitled "He Looked At the Land of His People and He Hated All Vehemently." Remington painted it as an illustration for a coming-of-age tale of a young Indian hero. The young brave looks discontently in the vast distance and you can just feel his disappointment and anger. I normally don't spend a lot of time studying paintings but this one didn't let go of me for a while.
A second exhibition on the first floor features contemporary work by Native American artists. About half of the work could have been painted by any talented American; that is, I couldn't discern anything that made these works "Native American." But others were clearly influenced by the artists' ethnicity. My favorite was one by Shelley Niro called "Unbury My Heart." She created 500 hearts, represeting the 500 Indian tribes of this country, and linked them together with cord. Of course many of these tribes are out of existence, which makes this a real heartbreaker.
My other favorite in this show was by Woody Guyn, a striking painting of a western landscape, with an interstate road slicing its way across the forests and streams. I also had to look at this for a while, and thought a lot about the wind turbine issue that's so troubling to me. We Americans have become all too good at destroying our natural resources.
The second floor of the museum is devoted to Native American art. I was struck by the differences in the displays on the first and second floors. The floor of Western art was filled with paintings and bronzes. The floor of Native American art was filled with masks, cooking utensils, beaded headdresses and other ornamentations, jewelry, carvings, saddles, mocassins and other implements of everyday life. No "fine art" for them. I don't know what to make of the difference, but it was very striking.
As I was leaving I read a statement posted on a wall that said something to the effect that white men look at time as a river flowing onward, whereas Native Americans look at time as a pond where everything is layered. I've got to ponder that for a while.
It's a dark and rainy day, the perfect kind to spend in a beautiful museum. Particularly one filled with engaging art and artifacts. Like the Eiteljorg Museum of American Indians and Western Art in Indianapolis. Founded 20 years ago by a local philanthropist who had a lifetime interest in Native Americans and their art, the museum is beautifully designed and laid out. But like all museums, it's the art that counts. And as a longtime devotee of Western American art, I fell in love.
The first floor is devoted to Western American art, dozens, perhaps hundreds, of Remingtons (both paintings and bronzes) and work by many other artists portraying Native Americans. The Remington that stopped my heart is entitled "He Looked At the Land of His People and He Hated All Vehemently." Remington painted it as an illustration for a coming-of-age tale of a young Indian hero. The young brave looks discontently in the vast distance and you can just feel his disappointment and anger. I normally don't spend a lot of time studying paintings but this one didn't let go of me for a while.
A second exhibition on the first floor features contemporary work by Native American artists. About half of the work could have been painted by any talented American; that is, I couldn't discern anything that made these works "Native American." But others were clearly influenced by the artists' ethnicity. My favorite was one by Shelley Niro called "Unbury My Heart." She created 500 hearts, represeting the 500 Indian tribes of this country, and linked them together with cord. Of course many of these tribes are out of existence, which makes this a real heartbreaker.
My other favorite in this show was by Woody Guyn, a striking painting of a western landscape, with an interstate road slicing its way across the forests and streams. I also had to look at this for a while, and thought a lot about the wind turbine issue that's so troubling to me. We Americans have become all too good at destroying our natural resources.
The second floor of the museum is devoted to Native American art. I was struck by the differences in the displays on the first and second floors. The floor of Western art was filled with paintings and bronzes. The floor of Native American art was filled with masks, cooking utensils, beaded headdresses and other ornamentations, jewelry, carvings, saddles, mocassins and other implements of everyday life. No "fine art" for them. I don't know what to make of the difference, but it was very striking.
As I was leaving I read a statement posted on a wall that said something to the effect that white men look at time as a river flowing onward, whereas Native Americans look at time as a pond where everything is layered. I've got to ponder that for a while.
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