Monet Returns

There is this beautiful quote by which I live, by Ray Bradbury: "If you wait long enough, I learned, and stuff your eyeballs with shapes, sizes and colors, the gumball machine in your skull lends you gifts at the drop of a penny."

Last weekend I decided to stuff myself with inspiration and go to galleries and museums alike. On Sunday I was headed to the MoMA, and I started my day off with a cup of coffee from my local cafè, which boasted some gorgeous desserts to passers-by.


As I began exploring the museum, I saw something I never had before: a DEINSTALLATION.


I was really just there to see the newly reinstalled Monet collection, but got sidetracked by a special exhibition featuring items from the Judith Rothschild collection, followed by a "Looking At Music" exhibit featuring posters, movies and, well, music of the last fifty years. I damn near missed my opportunity to see Monet because of rooms like this.








But before I knew it I was beholding the Monet room.



I have a special affinity for Monet. On my nineteenth birthday my mom took me to see the Monet exhibit on display at the Phoenix Art Museum. I think it was the first time I'd ever been to an art museum. I remember being so incredibly moved by the exhibit. I felt entranced, like they'd always belonged to me and I was glad to see them again for the first time. I'd never seen real, good art so close to my physical being before, and it was overwhelming. I wanted to reach out and touch the thick brushstrokes, to feel that beauty physically. I was so moved that I declared my major as Art History the following week.

This time I didn't assume that I would have the same reaction, because although I love Impressionism it's not the type of art that usually affects me, and especially not nature-themed art, but I did look forward to seeing what I considered old friends again.

And yet, as I walked into the Monet room, I stopped before this relatively small painting, the first one by the entrance.

Japanese Footbridge.


And I was utterly, competely overwhelmed, as I had been almost ten years ago. The air went out of my body and I had a consuming feeling of being home. I felt like my mom was standing beside me.


Then there was this big ol' thing. As I learned, Monet requested that his large triptychs be displayed on curved walls so as to give the viewer the feeling of being encompassed by the piece.


It worked. And yet, I am still most affected by the details - strokes of paint, so textural and visceral, so delicate and simple and somehow evocative.


I didn't touch any, but I wanted to. But that's why I make my own paintings now, so I can touch it all I want.


Put those simple strokes together and it creates something dreamy and familiar.


It is so old. The paint looks cracked and yet stoically firm, married to its canvas.








I respect any art that can so elegantly dwarf its audience.


I'm thinking I might have to visit Giverny during my upcoming travels around France, oui?


Afterward, I was completely entranced and wandered what of the Museum I still had time to. After filling yourself with art, everything starts to look like art, you know?


I walked around for a bit after the Museum closed, since it was such a nice day, and was delighted by this little boy who decided the fountain at Columbus Circle was his personal wading pool.






The blues that day were so blue.


As I made my way home, the sun set in its ordinary perfect way, the way that is common and daily during the summer and craved in the winter.





The sky reaching up so high and so open, the city just freckles upon the earth.


But up is not the only way to look.


Once you fill your eyes with beauty, you see it all around you.

love,
*jenna*