OK...as has been pointed out to me, I got a bug up my ass, which caused some very personal reactions to certain things, causing me to come off like...well...we'll go with asshole here, as I'm not about to quote what I was accused of coming off as.
(The Diction Nazi is at the Guggenheim, and unable to fix that sentence.)
The very first museum I took my children to was when they were very young. We lived in Louisville, and it was the Louisville Museum. Tiny thing, but they'd just gotten a Rembrandt, which for a small museum was a big deal indeed. Now, neither of the children were old enough to understand why Mommy and Daddy just stood in front of the Rembrandt. (They thought it was a dark, ugly painting of a guy just sitting there.) They found other things to appreciate there.
For many reasons, museums haven't been much of an option in my life. However, I have a passion for books. My library contains a great many of what are generally referred to as "coffee table" books. The kids got to see most of the world's art through books. I lean toward the impressionists, so there is a print of Van Gogh's sunflowers in the kitchen and a Renoir in the living room. They've discussed the paintings in the books with me and understand that although Van Gogh's "Corns Over the Cornfield" absolutely rivets me to the floor, I could never live with it. Too damned much emotion.
At the moment, other than a fantastic volume on the Egyptian Museum, I can't remember what else I own and I'm not getting up.
They went on to develop their own tastes in art and even to introduce me to new art.
Cable television was also fantstic for exposing the kids to art. I'd give a lot to have someone tell me the name of the scultor who puts his sculpture out in the pasture with his sheep. Those pieces particularly effected us when we saw him on television.
Why do I so easily volunteer much more personal information? Well, a very long time ago, on an adult webmaster message board, I mentioned I was agoraphobic. My inbox lit up with webmasters writing me and saying "me, too!" (It's logical if you think about it. This is the perfect job for people who stay indoors a lot.) That's why. I figure that if you've got to be totally fucked up, you might as well spread a little sunshine around if you can.
Sharing that I was afraid of heights led to a most companionable time at a convention with Mark Tiarra, when we rode the glass elevator up to the top of the hotel with our foreheads pressed against the outside glass just to prove we could do it. (Neither one of us threw up and the high we felt afterwards was incredible.)
And on and on.