"What About My Embryos?"

I seem to have a strange attachment to places. Am I that bored? Yes. Would I rather not write about myself? Yes, again. But I inevitably will anyway. So, let's move along.

Behind a parking lot and a few trees in the Montrose area of Houston lies a curiously beautiful art gallery. The outside stands in stark contrast to the classic American architecture that embraces the premises. Strikingly clean and modern, the Menil Gallery is too geometric and copasetic to have been built at the same time that the University of St. Thomas was founded. However, the shroud of foliage that outlines the grounds seems to make them perfect bedfellows. (Wow, I'm trying really hard to live up to Ruby's comment)

When I finally found this place, I was pleasantly surprised by the omission of an admission fee. A novel concept, n'est pas? But more than likely instated to cater to the campus crowd. My feet were greeted with dark hardwood floors whereas the walls stretched wide, high and white toward the ceilings. My curiousity geared me toward the right when I spotted large letters reading 'Surrealism'. Alright, I thought. Familiar Terrain. And familiar it was. The impressive collection held an abnormal number of Magritte paintings, the odd Dali, and at least a couple of works by Yves Tanguy, which I was very happy to find.

Perhaps more wonderful was my discovery of a small selection of paintings by the famous Chilean artist, Roberto Matta. Those of you already familiar with him may be the same who have seen his work around New York City, where a great deal of it resides. I, on the other hand, had only beheld him once through one of his characterisically massive paintings in the Modern Art section of the MET. I remember it's imagery, an autumnal palette whose cloudy patches were penetrated by straight lines that connected vaguely human figures. Each scrawny and frightening figure seemed caught in some self-inflicted torture while still trying to make sense of the suffering of their friends. By the way, I have no idea what I'm talking about. I just found it aesthetically arresting.

Being reunited with his work in this hellish place seemed almost a payoff for the traffic I had to deal with to get there. The tortured figures had reappeared but the picture possessed less mass, perhaps making it less daunting.

I eventually tripped over to another room in the same exhibit hall. This held an oppressive array of strange artifacts that I believe the curator was trying to highlight as inspirations for many surrealist paintings. A man made of straw, a number of tribal masks, and a mask with long spikes jutting from it's face were among them. The combination of these and the darker walls served to scare me out of that particular room.

I wish my memory was still here, but apparently it awaits me at a second visit to this place.