Working between two screens, sometimes my cursor gets stuck in the opposite one that I want. (Like my brain doesn’t do that all the time.)
It’s so easy to think, “Well, I always did it this way…” Whether I’m talking about different countries, different languages, loves, relationships, even my hairdresser. And I catch myself swiping madly on the wrong screen.
Change is never easy. Neither growth. But both are so necessary. And it doesn’t mean you have to give up everything in the letting go, the moving on…You keep the lightest of things, like joy and hope and love — none of these will ever weigh you down.
Too often I’m unaware. It’s barely more than air, the little birdie that tells me things. But when I’m paying attention, really paying attention, all the truths that move between who I am and who I want to be, chirp seamlessly between my heart and my brain, and I am saved.
All field trips were welcomed. Turning in the signed release form from my mother was always a bit exciting. Seeing the curve of her “I”, still ignites a feeling that something good is just a bus ride away.
That giant yellow box on wheels took us stomping the bog up north. Crawling through Crystal Cave. Orienteering is some forgotten forest. To the zoo. Knute Nelson Home. The baseball stadium. And then one day, without my knowledge or permission, straight to the door of my first love, The Walker Art Museum. I bought two pencils from the gift shop and saved them like pressed corsages from a high school dance.
I suppose you never forget your first love. It changes you. Not only the love you receive, but finding out the love you are able to give. This infinite supply that says you will always have a reason to board that bus. To try new things. To believe in them. To see the beauty all around you. Ever. Still.
That’s what The Walker in Minneapolis did for me. Does for me still. Even a country away. I pulled out my most recent purchase from last year’s visit. I read the back of the shirt. Minneapolis, MN — the World in New Ways. I couldn’t have imagined what that would mean. And I couldn’t love Minneapolis more than I do now.
My mother was always right. Something good is coming.
It’s funny that we still say “in broad daylight,” as if any of it should be surprising anymore.
It took only seven minutes to complete the daylight heist of the Louvre in Paris. At 9:30am on October 19th, the brazen thieves walked away with priceless jewels of France.
It was Hemingway who wrote about his years in Paris, “You expected to be sad in the fall. Part of you died each year when the leaves fell from the trees and their branches were bare against the wind…” And still, we didn’t expect it. I suppose we never do.
Even in the autumn, or the dark mornings before the time change…even after reading day after day of what is done in broad daylight, I’m still surprised. And doesn’t it have to be, surprising, for us to continue this human experience. Amid all the name calling and crimes committed, shouldn’t we still be surprised, shocked at the behaviors all around us. We can’t let this become normal. We simply can’t wash it away as the new light.
For us to maintain any sort of humanity, our most priceless of jewels, we have to be surprised. Surprised enough to call it out. Fight against it. Be better.
And it was Hemingway, too, who told us, “there would always be the spring.” I still believe. The unshuttered light comes through my morning window.
“I took the one less traveled by, And that has made all the difference.”
I had been living in the poem, long before I had even heard of Robert Frost. I had never been one to blend. Even the love of poetry itself seemed somewhere off the beaten path. But all the treasures I have found have never been by pushing my way through a crowd.
Yesterday, as folks made their way to lake and fair, we went to the museum. I started my grin when we parked with ease. Then a full blown smile as we walked through the entrance. The halls were empty. We talked about paintings in our normal voices without struggle. Walked right up to our favorites. Took photos without obstruction. I could only giggle, as it seemed to be open just for us.
I can’t waste time worrying that it probably will never happen again, because it did happen. And that’s more than enough.
I bought a pencil in the gift shop. Gift shop pencils always seem to work better for me. I think the wood absorbs all the creations of what was and flows into my creations of what will be. I suppose the same is true for love and life. The halls of the day are wide open. I can only giggle.
Visiting new museums, one can often suffer fatigue from the pressure to see it all and document it. Overwhelmed and under pressure to put yourself in front of all the masterpieces, capturing every photo and all of the proof.
But yesterday was different. I can feel myself exhale, just in the typing now. I have been to the Minneapolis Institute of Art countless times. I know where to park. Where the bathrooms are. The steps to the Impressionists. And it can still make my heart jimbly in the most delightful way, without all the pressure. I can wander France in front of the Cezanne. Laugh in front of the painting that my friend’s husband says looks like the two of us, though neither of us thinks the same. I circle the portrait room and imagine one of mine just beside the Alice Neel or the Andrew Wyeth. I view the skyline. Levitate through the shop. Never a photo taken. The gift is, I don’t have to prove that I’ve been here, I just get to be.
I suppose that’s home, isn’t it? Where your heart can rest, and your mind can wander. Thank you, Minneapolis. We’ll be back.
We went to see the new David Hockney exhibit in Palm Springs. In his late eighties he has created all new works, using mostly his iPad. He is also exploring something he calls reverse perspective.
I could spend a lot of time talking about the vibrant colors. The scale. But it is the perspective that interests me the most. (Or the least, perhaps).
I was in my first year of college, in my first formal art class. The professor gave us an assignment on perspective. I went home for the weekend to see my mother. I sat at the end of her small apartment hallway. I drew what I saw.
Maybe it was because my world was just opening. A new city. A new life with books and people and wonder. Everything was changing. As I feared, as I wanted. I held up my small drawing. The boy in the back shouted, “It’s completely backwards.” Others shook their heads. Agreed. One even laughed. I was a bit shocked. It hadn’t even occurred to me. I held my breath. The teacher shushed the class. She asked me simply, quietly, in a way that sounded curious, not accusatory, “Why did you draw it that way?” I whispered, “That’s what I saw.” She smiled, and hung it on the wall.
David Hockney is quoted as saying, “To hell with the idea of a single vanishing point.” How exciting! Thrilling even! To paint without rules, simply to get closer and closer to the things I care about. I suppose that’s not just the way I want to paint, but the way I want to live.
It wasn’t in any color that I had seen before. The Sainte Victoire mountain hanging at the museum in Iowa was bolding in oranges and reds and yellows — everything but the colors of Provence — and yet, we knew in an instant that it was home.
That’s the beautiful thing about “home,” it can come in so many disguises. I have seen it in fields. On sidewalks. On sand. And snow. In front of a painting. In the embrace of love. From state to state. Now country to country.
I used to think one had to search to “find” it. But it became clear that it was more about seeing it, feeling it, wherever I was. Inside. The heart has the most magnificent filter, if you use it. It can process through any color, any distraction of pain, hurt, confusion, and find its way home. And, oh, how the world, we humans, like to distract — with all of our “look at them,”s or “look at that!”s — when really, all we need to do is look within.
We stumbled joyfully through this world of an orange provence, and we were happy. All differences can be navigated, when your heart is in the right place.
Last week we had the good fortune of revisiting the Musée d’Orsay in Paris. Located on theLeft Bank of the Seine, it houses the largest collection of Impressionist and post-Impressionistmasterpieces in the world. Painters include Claude Monet, Édouard Manet, Degas, Renoir, Cézanne, Seurat, Gauguin, and Van Gogh. It began as a railway station in 1898. By 1939, the short platforms became unsuitable for the newer, longer trains, and some considered it useless. There was even talk of tearing it down. But because of the vision of a select few, it was saved. And it is now one of the most beautiful and visited museums in the world. I suppose it’s always been human nature to give up. Supplied with life’s hammer, we have a decision to make, again and again. To build or destroy. Standing on the left bank once again, I know my decision is already made. The first thing I see each morning is this painting. The children by the sea. There is wonder. There is joy. This can never change. I put down my hammer, and pick up a brush. There is beauty to be made. Still.
They’re very good about marking their notables in Paris. Carved on the sides of buildings. Voltaire lived here. Voltaire died here. I’m not sure everyone notices. They are perhaps too occupied, trying to get the hand placement right on the photograph so it looks like their finger is placed atop the pyramid outside the Louvre.
And as I stand there, in this sea of outstretched arms and index fingers, I shake my head at myself — wondering if it matters. Me, standing there too, but with my new Degas sketchbook, and Voltaire notebook, lifted by the these lives, feeling their presence still. Immersed in the joyful responsibility of doing more. Because of them.
And I do feel it – them – the others that have come before. Those that have made the paintings. Wrote the books. Dared the thoughts. Lived the lives. I have to believe it all matters.
I sent my Minneapolis friend the photograph of me in Paris, wearing her blazer jacket. Layered over my mother’s blouse, and the t-shirt I purchased at The Walker in my home state. She replied – “The jacket! I’m with you!” — all the proof I needed that it does matter — to carry the ones who once carried us, who lift us still.
It’s no secret that I love to go to museums. To see beautiful things, that’s obvious. Of course there is pleasure in that. But there’s more. So much more. Standing in front of a painting is like being in a time capsule. You are transported to the date of creation. You are within the movement of the hands and heart of the artist. You walk in their story. Be it pleasure or pain, calm or turbulent, you are there. They are there. With you. For you. Allowing you the comfort to bring your own story to life.
Yesterday I found the pin that my friend bought for me at the Minneapolis Institute of Art. It reads, “Support your local museum.” Holding it in my hand, it occurred to me that friendship, true friendship, is like a museum. It holds all of your stories. Your most celebrated moments in the brightest of colors. Your deepest thoughts in dark, subtle tones. Your aspirations and dreams. Your fears and triumphs. All without saying a word. The only requirement is simply to walk within it.
So I wear the pin proudly, and encourage us all to do the same. Support those beautiful and glorious works of friendship. The art and heart of our living. I give thanks to them, for them, every day.
