Lines Do Not Exist

Last week, I paid a visit to the Minneapolis Institute of Art with my friend Timmy.  As we wandered aimlessly around (but careful to avoid the Asian Art section, where I usually start and then get terribly lost and end up spending the whole day), we stumbled upon the exhibition "Une Cite Moderne: Drawings by Robert Mallet-Stevens, architect."

Immediately my pace slowed as I meandered to one drawing and slowly worked my way around the room, stopping to ponder the sociological implications of Mallet-Stevens' designs. (I love architecture.)

 Tim, an artist, appeared over my shoulder and commented something about lines.

"Tell me more," I implored.

"Lines do not exist," he stated, as if it were the simplest of observations.


Another exhibition I was hoping to see (and we did) was one featuring MN artists.  Here's a review.  I was really looking forward to the movie one, to the opportunity to watch people cross the line from suspension of disbelief to return to reality.  But I was disappointed.  People just got up, chatted a little but incoherently, and meandered out of the theaters.  No extraordinary threshold-crossing.


Lines do not exist.