I absolutely adore our local art museum. Each time I get it together for an hour of serenity strolling the galleries, I soundly chide myself for not visiting more often. Today, I took myself to see a Gottlieb exhibit only to find that it had closed yesterday. Sadly, I had gotten my dates confused. I was, however, able to peer into the gallery as they started dismantling it. Magnificent in its scale and simplicity, I was crestfallen. Oh! to have sat for hours gazing at those mysterious works, marveling at what drives an artistic mind to take up paint and brush, expressing a mind-marinade of thoughts and memories. I lingered among other exhibits, including arrestingly beautiful works by a glass artist, finally making my way to the contemporary wing of the permanent collection. On an early Monday morning, I was left alone to journal. I spread myself on my belly across a soft leather bench to write, just like a child would. I knew my every move was being watched by a security camera, but for all the world, I felt tucked inside a brilliant envelope. I really should do this more often.
I wonder what it is like to be an artist, pondering concepts like “big history,” “human resilience,” or “vibrating effects.” Generally, these concepts are not part of my daily mental currency. It’s so esoteric to me. However, I always buy the book related to the exhibits I take in, hoping to understand more and (really hoping) that one of my children will pull it off the shelf one day, only to discover a whole new direction. One they can explain the mind of an artist to their art-loving mother.