On our sightseeing rounds last weekend, we also stopped by the Smithsonian museums. Because how can you go to DC and not see the Smithsonian? Also, did you know that the Smithsonian Institution is made up of 19 museums, 9 research centers, and a zoo? I didn’t! I officially fail at knowing anything about Washington DC.

Our first stop was the Hirshhorn Museum. Right now, I’m trying to think of a way to say that I know very little about art without sounding ignorant. But that’s as blunt as I can put it. I really don’t know much about art. I can enjoy looking at most of it and appreciate the work and thought that was put into a painting or a sculpture, but I probably couldn’t tell you anything about a particular artist or the type or art movement it was influenced by (Cubism? Surrealism? Impressionism?) People who are passionate about art are moved by it. For me, it’s really just about the basic emotions that are evoked by a piece. I’m the type of person who’ll say something really philistine like, “Oh, that’s pretty!” or “Ew, gross.” to something. Most of the time, I just stand silently, confused.

Sculptures speak to me the most though. There’s something about a three-dimensional object that makes its concept easier to grasp. Upon seeing this one, MOW said, “That’s how I feel sometimes.” See? Relatable.

And this guy. *shudder* He was probably about 8 feet tall, sitting in the corner, staring at you. Very realistic-looking, very creepy.

It was an art museum, so there were paintings too. This is where things went downhill. I think MOW is more in touch with her artistic side, since she paints and has the eye for it. Here she is contemplating the way the brush strokes and shades of pink work together to create…um…harmony. Yeah, harmony.

Me, on the other hand? I’m a little confused.

MOW is getting a good grasp of the emotions the artist was trying to convey here. Yellow is like fire and black is like smoke. They churn together and create discomfort, as illustrated with the clashing brown background. It’s like a statement on the inner turmoil one feels when one has heartburn. I think. Right?

Here I am, wondering if someone rooted through my trash when I was in grade school and pulled out one of my discarded art projects and stole my “I still can’t color inside the lines” concept.

But MOW, she just gets it.

I tried, right? That should count for something. At least my parents can rest easy in knowing they made the right decision when they refused to let me go to college for art.