A Cheer for Winslow and Shaq

What a day Monday was. A half-million people cheering, a parade through downtown, city officials beaming with pride and full media coverage in every corner of the celebration. And all for one man, Winslow Homer.

I wish.

In reality it was for basketball, not art, that we were screaming our brains out. Making it for Homer was part of a what-if fantasy I had after checking out an exhibit of his paintings at the Los Angeles County Museum of Art and finding hardly anyone there.

The contrast of celebrated sports and isolated art was difficult to ignore.

Homer was the quintessential American painter of the 19th century whose work encapsulates the beauty and turmoil of an emerging nation. But a parade in his honor? Not likely.

He doesn’t stand a chance of outdrawing Shaq when it comes to crowd appeal. Not a car in town flew a pennant that said “Homer.” And if it did, we’d figure they were talking about Homer Simpson.

My fantasy began Friday afternoon as I stood in the doorway of LACMA West and looked at the roped-off area meant to control the lines of people waiting to get into the exhibit of Homer’s works. The area was empty, giving the setup a kind of forlorn appearance, as if it were a party that no one attended. L.A. was at home, in sports bars or at the Staples Center watching the NBA playoffs. Sports first, then art.

That’s when I began what-ifing.

What if, I wondered, given the choice of watching basketball or going to LACMA, the crowds had opted for art over sweat? What if the captured glory of a single sunrise on canvas became more important than a three-pointer by Kobe Bryant?

The fantasy evolved as I thought about it the following days. It went something like this:

It is a time in the future. We have become weary of celebrating those who are paid millions to hit, throw, run, jump or punch. And we are feeling that maybe art isn’t just a kind of nerdish pastime.

More importantly, we are seeing what we have become, drooling herds of superfans who eschew the works of those with brushes and easels, and idolize big men who can slam-dunk us into ecstasy by jamming a 20-ounce ball through an 18-inch hoop.

We have been turning athletes into heroes on a magnificent scale, right up there with Abraham Lincoln and Jesus Christ, forgiving those who commit crimes ranging from drug abuse to murder.

It doesn’t matter so much that a lot of these big guys can’t tell Michelangelo from Mickey Mouse, or that their methods of communication are often limited to grunts and high fives. They know you have to score to win, and very little matters beyond that.

We’re like jocks at a sports bar watching the team on an oversized TV set, cheering the physicality and pointing to the Lakers girls and saying, “Now that’s art!” We slap each other on the back and laugh like hell.

But then as I visualize it, something happens. I put together a scenario that brings a shift in public sensitivities. I realize that’s far-fetched, but it’s a fantasy, and anything’s possible in a fantasy.

I see that Van Gogh exhibit at LACMA in 1999 superimposed over the riot last year that followed the Lakers NBA championship win over the Indiana Pacers. No one smashed and burned when Van Gogh was in town, even though they turned out by the thousands to honor one of history’s great artists.

But when the Lakers beat Indiana to take the title, the crowds went crazy. They ran through the streets screaming and boozing and vandalizing, the way they do in places like Detroit and Pittsburgh. That wasn’t make-believe.

There are still scars on our conscience to prove that it really happened, and we think of it and worry about it even when it doesn’t.

But then the people in my daydream future begin wondering about the kinds of examples they’re setting for their kids. Because of all the noise and media hype attending a sports win, and the riots that too often follow, young guys are beginning to think they go together in a sort of ritualistic calamity. Mothers overhear their sons talking about sinking three-pointers and turning over cars, of winning games and smashing store windows.

But in my daydream, that doesn’t happen.

I see us celebrating a man who never shot a ball through a hoop in his life, but who gave us gentle seascapes, pensive women, heroes of the American frontier and barefoot boys of glowing innocence.

The parade for Homer marches across my fantasy in a glorious procession. Crowds cheer, music plays and orators blow word-kisses into the sky. There are shouts of “Homer! Homer! Homer!”

As the fantasy ends, I leave the daydream cheers for Winslow Homer sizzling on a sun-scorched pavement, its band music fading into the overheated air. I walk away from the exhibit, and the empty rope lines, feeling a little sad at the reality of a lonely scene. But I still can’t help wondering, What if ....