Gogyohka-Thursday [62]

 

halls of brilliant, modern white

first I wanted a camera

then a notebook

then my best friend

to walk in the stillness with




P.S. I can't tell if I want it to be "walk in the stillness with " or "break the stillness with" ... You tell me- can I have both? ;-)


*Image, Dia Beacon - Walter de Maria: The Equal Area Series

Metropolitan Meetings

"Are you a fan of Gustave Moreau?" That's how the first conversation began. I have the most delightful meetings at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. I think that's one of the reasons I love it. Since I am usually there by myself, and beauty is enjoyed best in company, I am forced to find a second to make company with wherever I go.

I was there for the forth time in a year just the other day. I wandered my favorite gallery,  listened to my heels echo on the wood floors of empty galleries, delighted in my new appreciation for (and recognition of!) countless artists- de Chavannes, Goughan, Seurat, Manet, Degas, Lautrec, Moreau, Van Gogh, and Klimt! When I grew hungry I grabbed some shawarma off a street vendor in front of the museum and watched an a cappella group perform on the sidewalk. The Met always sounds a bit like an airport- with countless nationalities buzzing about. But that day it was pervasively French- even my teacher noticed it- it seemed every other person was French! But oh, it was delightful. French couples. French families. French old ladies. French ten-year-old girls- sassing each other in French (charmingly adorable?). And more thrilling still- all the French voices murmuring all the French artist names. They sounded lovely rolling off their tongues.

I had been sitting in front of Moreau's Oedipus & The Sphinx for quite some time when a man- about fifty with gray hair and stubble, but with a youthful intrepidity about him- stopped , stooped, and queried, "Are you a fan of Gustave Moreau?"

I explained to him the nature of my paper- that I was making a case that he was not a Post-Impressionist, etc, etc, and this set him off on Moreau-rhapsodies. He agreed with me very much and told me he'd been to the Musée national Gustave Moreau in Paris and seen Moreau's countless paintings.

"I wish you could see this one- he has so many Aztec themes..." He looked around for his camera but remembered those particular pictures no longer on it. "It's just not normal to see somebody sit in front of a painting for forty-five minutes" he told me by way of explanation. We compared Moreau with Post-Impressionist work- and the man again tried to communicate the depth of detail he had seen in this one painting.

"Oh, Jupiter and Semele?" I suggested.

"Yes! That's the one!" (I can't tell you how pleased I was to know the painting's name). He told me I really should see the Moreau museum some day- I said I would if I got the chance. And we parted. And I stared at Moreau's collosal painting for another forty-five minutes.

For the "Master Painters of India" exhibit the Met had- get this- a whole bunch of magnifying glasses for patrons to make use of. And use one I did! The Rajput paintings were unbelievably detailed- with the gems of the tiny figure's jewelry practically indistinguishable to the naked eye.

Then, as I was perusing, I saw on a wall a blown-up photograph of India. I read the small description and let out a low laugh. Bundi, Rajasthan. A young guy (the only other person around at the time) turned around and said something, or simply looked, inquisitive. 

"Bundi Rajasthan," I explained, "I've been there." (Do you know the feeling? Of meeting a friend- someone familiar- unexpectedly in a far away place?)

He smiled and replied rather matter-of-factly, "So have I. It's very beautiful, isn't it?"

"Yes, it is."

A few minutes later I was in the gift-shop and there was this older, earthy-women fingering the wool scarves. They were lovely Indian weaves- my fingers stole to the price-tag- $125. :Gulp: They would hike the prices up- even in the Indian airport the scarves that sold for $7 on the streets were a good $100. The woman was still fingering them- I felt compelled to say something.

"They're much cheaper in India." 

She looked almost annoyed and said, very shortly in an accent- Italian, maybe- "I know. I go there every year. I was just comparing prices." She went back to her perusing- but presently turned to me again.

"Have you been to India?" (I have.) When? (2008). Where? (I told her).... It's beautiful, isn't it? It is. The pleasantries continued for a bit- and when parted and she called over her shoulder- "Maybe I will see you one of these days in India..." (In the Met more likely.)

I wandered some more and wove my way to the Robert Lehman Collection- where Renoir's Two Young Girls at a Piano resides. I looked at a Medieval exhibit- and at last- quite tired- sat down to soak in the atmosphere... I stared at the slits in the roofing- writing up details for my stories in my head. A woman-  plainly dressed with short-cropped gray hair- sat down next to me. We sat. And sat. And at last she says to me, "Who did that painting down there-?" (She points about ten yards away...)

"I don't know- I'll go look," I respond cheerily, popping up. She murmured after me, "I'm too tired to get up..."

It was a Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec painting- I knew Lautrec- and I brought back the name to her. She knew him, too. Her English was jumbled- she was saying something about how it wasn't Lautrec's usual style (I agreed) usually he'd darker (I agreed)- usually he's clownish and dark as in- "Moulin Rouge?" I suggested, "Yes, that one!"

She proceeded to tell me that she and her husband were art-collectors. I asked her where she was from (she thought I was from Paris?!?) and she said she was from the West Coast- but originally from Israel. She and her husband had been in NYC for a week- this was their second day at the Met- and she's was sooo tired but they had to go to the opera that night (and she wasn't ready to leave for Paris in the morning). She fell to rambling about this collector and that exhibition and this other person and somehow or other she asked me about myself and I told her I wrote. She never did write- she had a math-mind.

Her husband came by and they linked arms- she said to me, looking for the words, "Success... what is it they say? Success in life to you!" And they were gone.

What is it they say? Success to you? You simply must see this? I'll see you again?

All this beauty...

I am reminded of something Timothy Keller said in one of his sermons... about how  in Christ and Heaven we as Christians have before us the perfect romance- the most handsome prince- the loveliest wedding- a glorious battle and triumphant victory- awaiting, preparing, descending from Heaven. We need be not ashamed of loving fairy-tales. There is something beautiful and true in them: something that IS.

So you can see why I love the Met. For therein are centuries of visionaries,  historians, and poets, people who, in the image of God, are creating just as they were created- capturing the beauty around them- wrestling with beauty- fixating on the truth of Beauty itself. And where such beauty dwells- there also walk the beauty-lovers.

If you were there- we'd delight together.

This post is for Mrs. Viar and Mrs. Petersen. 
*Painting: First Steps (After Millet) by Van Gogh *Painting: Krishna Flirting with the Gopis, Purkhu (attributed to) *Painting: Two Girls at the Piano by Renoir 

Gogyohka-Thursday [57]

my high-heeled boots
 

clopping irreverently
 

break the strained concentration
 

of countless
 

modern art connoisseurs




*Image of the painting Connoisseur by Norman Rockwell.

Isaiah 40:29 [Dabbling with photo-editing]

 

 

 

 He gives power to the faint, and to him who has no might he increases strength.

I Did. I Did Go Back.

I told you I'd be back soon. Wednesday I was again at my beloved Metropolitan Museum of Art- one of my favorite places in the world.

It was a lovely day. Spring has blessed us with a premature visit (how long she'll stay, who knows- but I'll take what I can get). I spent the bus ride down chatting with my art teacher (whom I adore). She entrusted to my oversight four students (for various reasons- one had some sort of disability, another she hoped would pick up some of my enthusiasm). How could I not be enthusiastic? -to be back in that great room (they too were overwhelmed), to be back on those great stairs (they could not but help but like them), and to again sit before the product of brilliant genius?

This time I decided to critique my favorite- Graziella by Lefebvre. I wonder if he knew- Lefebvre did- when he painted for the Paris salons- that a hundred and fifty years later a college student in a leather jacket and Indian scarf would sit at his painting's feet in a museum in New York and fall in love with his fisherman's daughter (forlorn, wistful, her blue dress and black hair flowing in the wind- scarlet flowers in her hair and at her feet)?

As I sat there- those who passed marveled as well. Fellow classmates told me they'd considered my piece for their own work. A three year old girl commented to her mother, "She's be-oo-tiful." (I agreed, and the girl hid behind her mother's skirt.)

It was not like in past times where I could go where I wished- my group members needed to spend time with their paintings and we had a list of works to see scattered all over the museum. Still, I tackled my task of instilling enthusiasm in my group and I think, even had I been apathetic, the sheer beauty and grandeur of the place would have won them over on its own.

I had an uncanny moment when I was taking them down the circular staircase in the Medieval Wing to the Cafeteria- I again pointed out the Renoir painting across the way (this time making sure to note that it'd graced my childhood bedroom wall). It was the same time of day. The same stair-case. The same phrasing. And again a guy said, "You should be an art major." Oh, the predictability.

We went on our art-hunt. [We EVEN went to the Egyptian wing. The Egyptian guys are cuter than the Geek and Roman dudes. Just sayin'.] We plagued the guards with questions. "Where is this one?" And where is THIS one? And THIS one? And THIS one? It was surprising how unhelpful they could be- even when they knew what we were talking about. Normally I probably would have gotten a kick out of making them work for their money- but after talking to about ten guards I just wanted to get the whole thing over with. More on guards later. [Villa of Publius Fanius Synistor is, by the way, not just a painting. It an entire room painted from the floor through the ceiling and found in the left side-gallery adjacent to the Roman gallery.]

Our pilgrimage ended in the American Wing. I've never been fond of the American Wing- despite my love for writing desks I just. can't. spend. hours. staring. at furniture. But the American Wing does happen to have my favorite of the Met's statue gardens. 

I was exhausted. One of the girls wanted to go see the furniture. The other wanted to talk on her cell phone. The guys were still in the European wing critiquing. I curled up on a high-backed stone bench (over which cascaded ferns and vines), cast my eyes on the meditating Cleopatra across from me (and at times studied the intricate delicacy of a goddess's ivory fingers), listened to the soft, echoing murmur of the occasional person passing by... was vaguely conscious of a painter a few yards away... and at last fell asleep.

It was a sweet sleep.

A guard woke me up. "EXCUSE ME!" Her voice was harsh, grating, and  strained. "EXCUSE ME!" I sat up with a sudden grace which surprised me. "YOU HAVE TO SIT UP IN THE MUSEUM!" I replied with a cheerfulness I usually don't possess upon being just woken up.

I was awake. And refreshed. But I wondered if there really is a rule about sitting up in the museum... (After all... the STATUES lounge around.)

The gift shop was calling me (and the pair of earrings I have these long years coveted.) I looked for them. I even contemplated buying them. But they were gone- bought, I suppose, by somebody with more money than me. So I looked at hundred-dollar jewelry boxes, seventy dollar wallets, and priceless art replicas before being informed there was a calender sale (it is, after all, almost March) and I got an arsty calender thingy for two dollars.

The bus was leaving. I ran through the Egyptian exhibit. I ran through the lobby. I danced down the front stairs (glancing out wistfully at 82nd Street) and ran past the fountains to the bus- where my teacher stood  alone, waiting. She smiled. "Did you see anyone on your way out?" "No." She teased me- something to the effect of- "We were probably waiting for you."

And again we were gone. Good-bye, Met. See you later.


*Head photo by John Glines. Used by permission.

Gogyohka-Thursday [21]

My  little sister and I

have made a pact:


only one drawing

(green giants, red sky)

on my desk at a time

Mrs. inCredible

I have an amazing Asian Art teacher. We will call her Mrs. C. She's middle-aged and has children in grade-school. She always wears something pretty. She has longer hair- golden, with streaks of silver. She has a snappy, witty, no-nonsense teaching style. She's fair (and generous with the extra credit opportunities), and she packs her lectures. But what I particularly like about her is her smile.

Her smile makes mine. I walk into her class- just happy to be there- and begin to smile. Sometimes it's something I say (I usually manage to say something) and then her's lights up (mirroring, making, magnifying mine). Her eyes twinkle, her grin grows wide- mischievous in its irrepressibility. And my smile breaks anew all over.

I confess I make myself a nuisance in her class. I swear I only do it in hers (well, maybe a bit in Psych, too). But the class is so fascinating- it gets my mind going. I delight in the one class I have during the week in which I can learn- where despite apathetic fellow students I have a teacher who actually teaches. I revel in my fifty minutes.

I'm not sure how I do it. I have yet to figure it out. I comment- I ask a question- I misunderstand something- and somehow she finds it amusing. Annoying in an endearing way. I don't mean to be annoying. I know she likes me.

About a week into class I asked her if I was asking and answering too many questions. She told me I needed to figure it out by my "inner compass" and that my enthusiasm was something special- "You're great." I have tried to answer less questions- I don't know how successful I have been. But I try. Sometimes my hand begins to go up, and with a  sidelong glance at me Mrs. C's hand makes a small motion- and mine goes back down.

I often wonder what it is in my questions that strikes her so. Sometimes my questions are admittedly stupid (but who will ask the stupid questions if I don't?) But then sometimes they are very good. And I'm getting top grades. So I can't be that stupid.

The class likes me too. In a similar way- annoyed, yet endeared.

Part of our tests is a critique of one of the pieces of art we've covered over the section (India, China, and Japan). Before the test she tells us a list of 7-10  images from which she'll pick from- so we can be prepared to critique any of them. She rattles of the page numbers- and you better believe we pay attention.

One time, she began telling us at the end of a Friday class- but didn't finish. On Monday she began a new list and couldn't remember all the numbers she'd said previously. Well, I didn't want her to suddenly remember them on the test-day, so I filled her in, "78 and 76."

The class erupted. Murmurs. Indignation. Frustration- and, most strikingly, above them all drifted my name. They were, evidently, exasperated that I had reminded her.

But Mrs. C was as taken aback by the sudden out-break as I was and her eyes glanced at me in an amused, twinkling sort of way. So I was fine, despite being shocked at the reaction I had received. (I did need a little comforting- the girl next to me assured in a whisper that they liked me.)

I can hear her voice. "Come on, People!" She instills enthusiasm. She urges us to think. We give the answer. "Hello!" she cries out in triumph. My New Yorky teacher.

She told us this past week, "pretend this is the most important 50 minutes of your life." It wasn't a stretch for me. Of the semester? Of the week? Of the school day? I settled down more comfortably in my chair, letting my happiness suffuse over my face. She happened to be standing in front of me. Her grin grows wide. "You're killing me." she says.

Sometimes I wonder if I did something or other right- if this or that is ok. "You'll be fine."  she tells me. (One of the men in my class tells me I take things too seriously.) One time I doubted that the ancient Japanese knew about locks (they made massive grave mounds in the shape of a key hole). One time I thought a statue of Kannon (Kuan Yin) was a he. One time I asked for a date which was in our book. Another time I asked for a date that was not in our book. (Now she dates things for me on the board.) Once I made her do a double take when I told her the answer (she was looking for) to the type of art inspired by the natural catastrophes witnessed by the neolithic Japenese was sublime. (Yay for last year's World Literature teacher. She's deserves her own post.) Once I said something and all she said was, "I'm going to miss you." That made me happy.

She said it again Wednesday. One of the girls was making a deal about the Japanese gardens not having sand but... pebbles. Mrs. C was explaining there isn't much of a difference. It was becoming a class discussion on pebbles and how sand is created. I noted that California has large sand. She turned to me again, "I'm going to miss you.... but not yet!"

I'd like to think I brighten her day like she brightens mine. She asked to borrow my vocab sheet at the beginning of class. I reminded her to give it back- last time I'd lent it I never got it back. She would be sure to.

Class ended. And sure enough I saw her packing up her books shutting away all the papers in them. I went up to her and asked for my sheet back saucily. She smiles and grins at me and laughs and says something- I don't remember what- and goes looking for it.

I leave. I haven't told her yet. But when I registered (you remember me registering?) I signed up for her class next semester.

My Met & Me

   

There is a sort of ownership that comes with love. And I love the Metropolitan Museum of Art. 

When I was eight I was nearer hating the museum than liking it.  Every time we went- the Egyptian exhibit had something to do with our studies. We were  always studying Egypt. I was sick of Egypt. (You must forgive me. I was eight. And I suspect our fascination with Egypt had something to do with it being more family-friendly than the Greek gallery- with all its pearly white nudes.)

Perhaps that is why the Met and I are now so close. Love requires a certain knowing of both the good and the bad to be merited. As Oscar Wilde writes, "Women only [call each other sisters] when they have called each other a lot of other things first."

As we grew older we branched out throughout the museum- the boys to see this- the girls to see that- pairing up and meeting up. We would rest in the European wing in the room full of statues- and beautiful stain-glass murals and water-fountains. (My favorites  are the dieing Indian and the Cleopatra with the buff arm.)

My grandparents would often take my siblings and me to see special exhibits. In particular I remember the Greek-inspired fashion exhibit. The costumes were outrageous- with their low-cut backs and enormous white feathers- my sister and I were positive we could never wear them. But gawking was fun.

I have seen roof-top exhibits- massive modern concoctions. I have sat in on a lecture on Frau Angelico and gone through galleries deciphering symbols and making note of my favorite pieces.  I have spent hours in the armory (a favorite of our family's, along with the Medieval wing) - pacifying the more active imaginations of my brothers. Once I ate at the balcony restaurant. I don't remember what I ate- but I ate there.

Today I was at the Met again- along with over a hundred other students from my college. I naturally volunteered as a sort of guide- as the others were unfamiliar with the museum. They wanted to know how many times I had been there. I didn't know. Once or twice a year? That didn't sound like much to me- but they thought so. Over the course of ten years- it does add up.

Let me describe to you sound and space. Walking into the Met is like walking into both Yankee Stadium and Grand Central Station.  (It never gets old...) On the one hand there is the hubbub of the masses- from Russia, China, India, France- and on the other there is the vaulting grandeur of the front lobby- and the front staircase.

I love that staircase. The steps are wide and go up forever. It is a staircase that begs for young women in long white dresses to go flying down it into their love's waiting arms. (Too bad about all the people on it.) I am also of the opinion it needs a central banister- for wild young boys and girls to go sliding down on.

I led my group to the Asian section where we were to study. The last time I had been in the Asian gallery it had struck me as dark and foreign- with its dimly lit rooms- long shadows- eerie silences- and stone-faced gods.  But we are on better terms now. With weeks of study behind me- the rooms housed artifacts which I knew and understood- even recognized- and I geeked over Bo-bells and Bis and Li Tri-pods and Gandhaharan Bodhisattvas.

Later I led two classmates to the Cafeteria for lunch. In glee I pointed out a Renoir painting in passing. They could not relate. (But this is my fault. Perhaps if I had told them I had had it on on my wall for years growing up- and that I had referenced that same work in a children's story I had written- they would have understood.) I showed them the great room in the Medieval section- and told them about the grand Christmas tree they put up every year and how for years I have imagined singing and dancing in that grand, spacious, echoing hall. (They told me I should be an Art major.)

Then I was by myself. I walked solo through the halls... halls which I have walked so many times. It was so strange to feel familiar- (I fought urges to wrap my arms around the pillars)- and yet to still get turned around by the unexpected in the Met's rambling endless rooms (like a friend whom you know so well yet are ever learning more of).

I exchanged words with the guards (whoever said museum guards aren't friendly?).

I sat on the bare cold floor in front of  a ten-foot Chinese scroll and marveled at its delicate intricacy. I sketched and took notes, amidst people meandered around me- speaking in other tongues- marveling in other tongues- smiling down at the student with her notebook.

In my few extra minutes I had before I needed to go- I made a dash for my favorite gallery: the 19th Century Paintings & Sculptures.

I don't know what I was looking for- when I looked  amongst the rooms for my favorite paintings. I had no time to study them- and even if I had I have little desire to study them.  Then why? Perhaps this gets to the heart of my love for that museum- with all its cultures and all its history and all its treasured past: I know when what I see is beautiful. The Met has some of the most beautiful paintings in the world.

I wanted to see them again- to know they were there- still beautiful- in my Met.

Time was up. I had to get back to the bus. I dropped into the gift-shop (they still have the pair of earrings I've wanted for so many years- which I do not buy because they're frivolous and expensive). I am pleased to note that I never once set foot in the Egyptian wing. (I like to spite it. I scarcely look its direction.)

We pulled away.... away from the curb and the pigeons... away from the fountains and men selling their sketches and knickknacks... away from the front stairs... away from the pillars and the great doors and away from the Metropolitan Museum of Art.

I didn't look back. I wasn't sad. It's only a matter of time before I'll be back.


*Photos by John Glines. Used by permission. 
*Graziella by Jules-Joseph Lefebvre

Gogyohka-Thursday [3]

dishes waiting

wiping away the grime

my hands are swift and efficient

they dance before invisible eyes

art in unexpected places

Innisfree

I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,

And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made:
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honeybee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.

And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight's all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet's wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,

I hear it in the deep heart's core.

- William Yeats, The Lake Isle of Innisfree

Innisfree. It is among my favorite places in the world- the Berkley Rose Gardens, the San Fransisco Wharf, Monterey, NYC... and Innisfree.

Named after the isle in Ireland, Innisfree is a series of cup gardens - a flirtation between Design and Wild. Rocks protrude, water spills, and flowers, shrubs, walls, and bridges tumble over one another around a vast, glimmering lake.

It is here I have seen love blossoming.

It is here I think of weddings.

It is bright, breezy day- the kind where you bask in the sun till baking- then the wind comes and cools you down.

The trees are big. They cast great shadows.

We begin our walk- Annie and I together. I pick up a nut from the ground- larger than an acorn, yellow and green. We put it to our noses. It has no smell. I carry it in my hand, fingering its oblong smoothness. As Daddy joins us- he slips his hand in mine- the nut falls to the ground. "Isn't it beautiful?" I agree, then tell him glibly, "For you, I drop my nut." We laugh.

The sun makes us silly.

In an open field against the waterline we pull over chairs and pull out our books. Jonathan has The Scarlet Pimpernel- which I lent him for the occasion. I am rereading one of my favorites, Till We Have Faces. As I read- I stumble across a thought I had hitherto thought my own. Evidently it was Lewis'. How well he puts it into words, as Psyche speaks to her sister about her impending marriage to the god Eros:

I have always.... had a kind of longing for death. ...It was when I was happiest that I longed most. It was on happy days when we were up there on the hills ...with the wind and sunshine...

Yes! Because to die is life with Christ! It is always when I am happiest I long for Heaven the most... Nature, Food, Love, -when these stores the earth has offered me I taste and sigh, knowing the world and I both await the marriage of Christ to his church and the world made renew and perfect.

I read for a long time. Everyone has left. And I- I have grown weary of watching the belongings of people who have evidently sequestered elsewhere. I gather everything and set out to join them.

The grass is sweet and cool, then parched and prickly under my bare feet. I am alive.

I find them lounging at the top of a hill-in a shady glade... the soft murmur of Dad reading to my sister The Hobbit - my mother and brothers playing a game.

There is one hill in Innisfree which is covered in moss of all different sorts. I wander over it- my feet sink into the moss as into sand- or a thick rug.

It is time for lunch. We pass the picnic tables- there is one with an olive green table cloth on it- a vase of flowers, bottles of wine, clusters of platters with all sorts of finery.

I sit in the sun. There is a couple behind me- past their first bloom- they have put a blanket on the ground. They kiss. She asks him what he's thinking about- "Nothing," he says.

If asked, I would not have said "nothing." But it doesn't matter. They are happy.

I write. Annie leans against me. Not too far off an older man sketches. Jonathan and I take a walk around the lake- we talk of college and the French Revolution- and somehow of weddings. We always do. It's the Innisfree air.

We find two chairs and sit. I read. Jonathan sleeps. A young couple sit under manicured trees scarcely ten feet high that look like mushrooms. Jonathan says, "When I went to sleep they were in two chairs, when I woke up they were in one."

Yes. It's in the air. Weddings. Weddings.

I am thankful for the day. It was a gift- a tender slice of solace.

It was a taste of Home.