“The Tate Gallery of Modern Art in London, England, is a very large, and brand new, place to find some of the best art that the Western Civilization has created starting from the beginning of the twentieth century.  The building itself was built in the late twentieth century, when people were looking towards a bright future with big prospects and great returns on the interest in art.”

The docent continued her fluid speech about the gallery and was beginning to explain why some art was in the gallery and yet, others, were not.  My attention began to wonder towards the five storey high ceiling of the foyer that we were standing in to listen to the group talk.

We were very near to the first glimpse of the art inside.  There was a bronze cast spider standing on the ground floor, and it stood at full height up to three or four storeys up.  It was brilliantly beautiful.  And because of the firing that the bronze must have undergone, the dark, hard, brown bronze molded into thin ridges and cords throughout the spider’s body and legs, was the texture of a spider ready to jump, or spin, or bend fully, and land right on top of anyone walking under it.  I stepped away from the group, telling myself this would not be my final decision, so, I would quickly take the picture of this spider and run back to join the rest of the tour.

Getting close to it, I felt covered by the size and the body.  There was a bronze-molded bag underneath it, and inside were diaphanous balls that were the spider’s eggs.  It felt like being inside a tunnel, except the cement hardness was replaced with muscle, strength, and an organic beauty that lacks in grey and dim tunnels.  I was mesmerized, and took care to focus my camera and take the pictures.

When I turned around to look for the group, they had walked away and beyond.  I felt slightly let-down, but soon gave up on re-joining again.

I began to wander towards the stairs and the elevator, as obviously, some of the more beloved work were on the higher floors.  The triumph of the Tate is in its grandiosity.  It is large.  It is a monster.  And it is impressive.  Without purposely studying the directory, I decided to go up to the third floor.  The elevators were as impressive.  Shiny, mirror-like, and enclosing.

Off the elevator, there was just as much open concept space as there was downstairs.  I walked towards the centre of the building.  This high up, there were glass walls built around in a square, which was on the first storey.  I looked out and down, and saw the foyer and the many ant-sized people below.  Everything was on the inside, and yet, it was completely a self-sustaining eco-systerm.  The Tate Modern is a life-force in and of itself.

Turning to face some of the art, the first thing I saw was a Rodin sculpture.  A man, but not “The Thinker.”  Posed and sitting, but not of “The Kiss” fame.  It was a greeting before entering into one of the exhibition rooms.  It was large….  Which at the time I saw it, was not something I knew about Rodin sculptures.  The men, and the women, are taller, thicker, darker, and wiser than the average human being.  They see more, they think more, they feel more, and they look like they can say more too.  In any case, I found myself telling myself that this particular sculpture could not compare with what I had seen and knew of European Sculptures.  Those that adorn fountains and entrances to great palaces.  There is a very great physical movement in those copper and marble pieces.  But, now, as I understand, there is a lack of the wisdom that Rodin could bring forth in a Bronze.

As I turned yet again, there were paintings.  Bright, laughing, full of life paintings made of nothing but colour and the size of a brush.  This was also one of the first times I had seen something so beautiful that was not a drawing of something recognizable.  As I looked….  I am guessing that if a reporter were looking at me, he would say that I was staring, at these masterpieces that could fill two walls of space.  In any case, as I looked, I could not but overhear the voices of a couple becoming louder and louder as they were most obviously in a disagreement.  It was puzzling…  A relationship is difficult enough, but to come to a public place where people find enlightenment, to work out differences and irreconcilable questions about a partnership, is creating a bigger difficulty.  Probably one that the police and a judge would find in the favour of the Crown.

The woman could not understand why the man wouldn’t help her.  He countered that what she was pursuing was useless and of no help whatsoever.  They were centering on the issue of equality and whether anything that they had was fair and equal.  It was dizzying listening to the two of them counter and counter each other.  By this time, their voices were loud and carrying, and other patrons of the Tate were beginning to outwardly shush them.  I saw one of the security guards, in full uniform, approach them.  He put out his arm forcefully, and said sternly, and loudly, that they must keep their voices down and that if they wanted to continue, they would have to leave the Gallery.

Confronted by authority, and the agreement of the general public, the couple started walking, while in overly whispered voices they continued to address each other.  Soon, they were on the elevator, I gather, to go down, and the doors closed on them, forever taking them away from anyone here.

The rest of the Tate, of which I have seen only a small percentage, is absolutely just as beautiful and worth the cost of the building, of which the entrance fee is but the smallest infinitissimal price.  My thought, coming from that day, is to find life as attractive as the art, if not entirely to be as enraptured as the couple that so heatedly exchanged avowals with each other.