Seeing art where it is made

   I have been thinking a lot about my attitudes to art recently, especially modern art, and am currently in the process of noting them in my visually attempting blog (though it may remain forever in draft mode). The things that I have been writing about there, focused mostly on what I don't like about much of the art that I see, have given rise to thoughts about what I do like, and what moves me in it.
   Pondering the time that I studied fine arts in school and in the years following, I discovered something of vital importance to me; in almost all cases, it was a qualitatively better experience for me when I viewed art where it was made.
   Recalling the times that I spent visiting artists in their studios, I realized that the difference between seeing art in this way, as opposed to an institutional setting like an art gallery, was the human component. In the artist's workspace, I sensed a connection to a person. It is people, living things in general, that move.
   In those years, most studios I saw were of friends who had asked me for my input. But I also visited people that were only acquaintances, and even with relative strangers, I usually felt this connection.              
   Really, I believe it is a relation, and I realized that this correlation could also be felt, though not as strongly, if the artist was not there at the time. There was a presence of life which animated the work for me. This was true even when I didn't particularly care for what I was looking at.
   I haven't given too much time or thought to figuring out how to fully address this absence in the work that I sometimes attempt to produce myself, nor how to find better ways to see others work so I can more fully appreciate it. This disturbs me, because I can at times be very moved by art, even when seen in an environment that I don't find conducive for its' successful reception.
   I can't think of a time where I have not felt it a bit difficult to breathe after being in a museum or art gellery for more than fifteen minutes, usually chalking this sensation up to claustrophobia. More to the point, it seems that museums and art galleries feel just too lifeless to me.
   I don't think it's death that I fear, rather the absence of the living.