Art I wasn’t meant to see

So I imagined it instead

EB

A recent walk through our city in a spurt of good weather led me to find the Minneapolis Institute of Art’s “Institute of Ice,” a free outdoor exhibit featuring sculptures of ice. That is, until they melt. When I arrived, only a few remained. Those that stood shone in the sunlight, dripping slowly onto the green grass below them, now unrecognizable. On my way home through the Mill Ruins, I discovered another sign behind a strip of plastic. Again, I had missed a snow carving’s beauty; it stood displaying a large snowball of dirty snow people need not distract themselves with.

Temporary things feel, to me, like a near-universal experience for the American consumer. Our goods and services fade in and out of popularity, creating excessive waste. Relationships can be disposed of without a second thought at the click of a button. Mother Earth will never return to her former beauty untouched by humankind. I often struggle to see any aspect of the world that is permanent now, and I began to curse my luck for not being able to see the art as they stood. In this state of mind I began to imagine myself bearing witness to the art.

Traversing the exhibit, I scanned the titles of the ones I might have missed, imagining their curves, edges, and layers. I imagine the medium is harrowingly beautiful. It is temporary, reliant on elements we frequently view as the antithesis of life and beauty. I imagine the works’ clarity allows you to see yourself in them. You can see the world through the ice just as much as you can see the world in the ice. At least that’s how I want to believe it works. That simple practice of imagining, something so rare when the world is at our fingertips, brought me a sense of peace—nothing is forever, so we can learn to love what we have now and let go when it is time.