This past weekend I took a personal day. I decided to do something that I’ve been wanting to do – visit the Barnes Foundation, an art museum in Philadelphia. It’s an old collection of mostly early 20th century art housed in a fairly new, modern building. And I wanted to do it completely by myself.
I like looking at art and have looked at a lot of art. I studied art history in college, and I’ve always been drawn to museums working and volunteering in a few at different points in my career.
At the Barnes, I brushed off the free audio tour, because I wanted to go where my eyes took me and not be influenced by expert opinions or popularity or anything else. It would be a good little exercise in trusting myself and my instincts. I wouldn’t be waiting to be told what to do and where to look.
I wandered from room to room pausing longest at works by Matisse (always been one of my favorites), in front of drawings (I like black, white and graphic) and a collection of Native American blankets. It was very quiet in the museum, the only noise being the hushed whispers of visitors and the hum of their audio tours through their headphones.
I like being alone. And I like quiet. And I thought if I gave myself some time and space alone something interesting might happen to me or I’d have some sort of revelation. I’d have a moment. And while I had a very nice, pleasant day, the more pressure there was to get something out of it, the further away that something seemed to get.
Here is the blow by blow of what appeared to be happening/How it was really going down.
Waiting for the train with ear buds/Listening to personal development podcasts because I constantly need a lot of help, reassurance and general direction.
Walking from train to museum/Totally lost on a weird road with no other people or intersections under blaring sun. Waiting for someone to jump out of the bushes and attack me. Sweating profusely.
Gazing at the Renoirs with curiosity/Can not get over how curvy the naked women are. Serious thighs. I mean huge. These paintings would be so weird with our contemporary standard of beauty. They’d be like tiny stick people.
Sitting on a bench looking contemplative/Having a really bad stomach day and barely able to move around.
Ordering a salad and glass of wine at the elegant museum cafe/Feeling guilty about spending $30 on lunch and even more guilty about still being hungry afterward. Eating two leftover enchiladas when I got home.
Having a cup of coffee and reading/Doing anything to stall going home. Waiting for something interesting to happen. And trying to warm up. So. Cold. Inside.
Waiting for the return train reading/Thinking about how no one in the world knows exactly where I am and that this is how people disappear. Who would play the True Detectives in my disappearance? I watch way too much tv.
Getting dressed for an afternoon yoga class/Skipping yoga and watching two episodes of Mistresses with Alyssa Milano and taking a nap.
That’s what really happened. I spent the day looking, looking, looking. At art. For a moment. For some sort of insight.
When you look at a painting, you see an artist’s world translated into colors, shapes and lines and to the observer the result is amazing, but you don’t see the full picture. You don’t see the blood, sweat, tears, discipline and sacrifice that go into making something look so effortless.
You can’t see the full picture just by looking. It’s easy to get lost in the gap of how things look vs. how things really are.
I knew I would write about my trip the museum, but I thought I would write about the amazing things that happen when you are alone or how giving yourself space can transform you or something like that. But instead, I’m giving you the full picture of a nice but otherwise unremarkable day of looking at art.
What was remarkable was how a day off from all responsibilities gave me a little reboot. Even though I didn’t find what I expected in the space and quiet of the museum, I did get a better sense of the full picture.
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