Gia Raquel

Before reading about the life of Diane Arbus, I didn’t know how to feel about her. I had seen numerous amounts of her photographs, but I couldn’t feel a connection to them whatsoever. Even though I could see their ingenious qualities, no matter how hard I reached, I couldn’t grasp that momentary shift of beautiful clarity art imposes within viewers. All around me, I could hear soft gasps of admiration and comments of astonishment. When would I feel that? When would I be able to understand what everyone else was seeing?

In her biography, I learned that Diane was the black sheep of her family. Her work was disregarded and instead was moved aside for the praise of her brother. Diane Arbus’ avant garde work was appreciated by everyone, except for her family. Upon knowing this information, I looked back her photographs. In the Met Breuer, her pieces hang in a room of black and white hues. Standing there and knowing about her life made me feel small. I felt as though I was a child holding onto my mother’s hand, asking her what everything meant. I think that’s why I didn’t like her photographs at first, I couldn’t understand them. Even pretending to understand them proved to be hard. But maybe I don’t have to understand. Maybe I just have to appreciate it.

In the Museum of Modern Art, there is a room dedicated to Monet paintings that stretch across the walls. I can sit there for hours, staring at the colors and hearing Clair De Lune in my head. But looking back, I don’t understand that work either. I merely sit and enjoy being in its presence. So why couldn’t I do that with Diane?

I realized there is a vastness of how I appreciate art. There is a wide spectrum of absorbing art, and I believe Diane Arbus made me discover a new pathway. She opened my eyes to the freedom of abnormalcy.

I’ve unknowingly trained myself to separate things into two categories: aesthetically pleasing and not. I’ve seen through my own art that I try to make horrible motifs visually pleasing to some degree, as if to mask some of its ugliness. But Diane Arbus reveals those unsightly views completely. I cannot deny that her work holds a disturbing yet intriguing factor to it. Arbus’ work is not the type of art that I can absorb all in one sitting. It is something I have to take in small doses, an appreciation I must acquire over time.

Although that is true, that does not mean Diane Arbus is any less inspiring to me. Against the odds of her family, she pushed restrictions that so many people have trouble with. She broke apart natural barriers and urged the art world forward that much more. Regardless of my feelings toward her art, Diane Arbus stands for more than being an extremely talented artists. She is a screaming siren, a reminder that anyone has the ability to crack limitations and create without remorse.