Most of the statues in Gabriel's collection are figurative: realistic depictions of half-nude men or women. Easy to like, but I get the sense there's more to them. The titles allude to myths that might deepen my appreciation if I knew them well.
A few of the sculptures are modern, though. Abstract. At first glance they're just haphazard jumbles of geometric shapes, but their origins are clear to me. The artists of the early 20th century are so deeply influenced by African and Oceanic art that it’s disturbing. They must have felt really cool embracing all those “primitive” concepts in their longing for a more authentic experience. It’s like another wave of colonialism happened in the salons and groovy bohemian attics of frosty Paris. It wasn't enough to steal African bodies. They had to leech away the spiritual and aesthetic ideas too. Take the marrow from the bone.
By birth, I'm a Westerner, an American. But when I look in the mirror, I don’t see one of the pale-pink ladies from Boucher’s paintings. I don't see the "perfect proportions" of the Venus de Milo reflected back at me. What I see is an African face, an African body. And while my mind is comfortable with the European pieces, I feel an indescribable affinity with the African artwork here in the apartment.
On bad days that duality tears me apart, but today I feel just fine. I think I might create a little something myself, mixed and impure, everything about me all tangled up.