Chicago art institute

Chicago has a really nice art museum which has a significant collection of the Impressionists. Some Van Gogh, Renoir, Gauguin,  and Pissaro, and a decent Monet collection. It is this part of the museum which is also very often the most crowded, impressionism being one of those movements which has made such a lasting impression even on people who aren't that interested in art in the first place. Names like Van Gogh have entered into the popular consciousness like Einstein's has, transcending the boundaries which separate a student of art from a mere novice. On this artistic gradation my quiver is, unfortunately, more empty than full and I lean heavily towards the side of being a novice. However, that doesn't prevent me from experiencing a pleasure from art whose origins are very hard to find and whose essence harder to describe. I have a sneaking suspicion that that pleasure is somewhere connected to the idea that artists like the ones I mentioned (and many more whom I don't even know about) created something exquisite out of nothing but their own curiosity and passion. Those works are not diluted in the way that general ideas are diluted and they stand as testaments, within the small bounds of space and time, to the excruciating efforts that the artist took not just to make that one piece but to cultivate that talent which made it possible and to cultivate that 'go-away' sort of rebellion which seems essential if one ever wants to do something whose legacy can last beyond one lifetime. There is a childlike simplicity to those endeavors whose fruits are these works of art which are definite mileposts signifying those who let their imaginations fly free. There's also the ever present subtext of a seductive intelligence in all of this, an intelligence that was patient and scrupulous and extremely careful as it painted every single brushstroke, even the one which became the last diminished thread of the curtain flowing aimlessly in the dark, in the corner, in a place which almost no one ever notices. The allure of these pieces, therefore, is the same as the allure of a really great book, in that it emanates from the tireless effort of an individual who poured long hours into perfecting every little part with his only motivation being his inability to give to it any less. And this is a rather universal impulse which speaks a general language understandable even by those who may not necessarily 'get' the nuances of the particular craft. It's also an impulse which can be all too easily branded as being elitist and snobbish because it stands at odds with the very useful utilitarianism which seems to permeate everything. And there's something to be said about that argument. However, I often find myself being moved by Watterson when he respectfully disagreed with John Stuart Mills referring to utilitarianism as being overrated.