Notes from the National Gallery

Sometimes, when I'm either organized or really lonely, I keep a journal. I love reading what I wrote about past trips or events in school or friends who inspired me. And sometimes, when I'm not really organized, but maybe still lonely, I write sporadic notes about my reactions to things. I never let people read these. But today, at risk of being unpolished, I present my reactions from my visit to the  National Gallery this morning:

 Usually, when I stand in front of a painting I think, "wow, that's beautiful" or, "wow, so many years went into cultivating his skills." I love walking in the quiet rooms and passing paintings and stopping when one catches my eye.

In a museum last spring there was a sign describing people who feel pain from looking at beautiful things -- I understand this feeling. I chase places and artwork that I describe as "so lovely it hurts." A month ago I stood on a beach with tears running down my cheeks and wondered whether it was because it was so beautiful or because I was so alone. Maybe the two weren't so far apart?

Today, though, I stopped in front of a famous painting. I'd seen it in books and postcards and an inflatable toy. And for the first time it spoke to me.

Of walking alone through  another new city with your head full of swirling thoughts and begging for a distraction. Anything. Anyone. Just something to break up the current of your thoughts. Of watching yet another couple walk past and wondering, "will I ever feel like my life isn't always in transition?" Of staring off a bridge and having the landscape blur in your head because you've seen so many new places lately. Of feeling like it's just too much for a moment.

I'm looking at this painting, and I'm seeing myself reflected in the swirls.

I'm sitting and a girl walks up, her boyfriend takes her picture as she stands in front and claps her hands to her cheeks in a mock scream. And I wonder, when did she last feel like this? When did she last feel like she had to scream just to break up the ceaseless swirling in her mind?

Because I've screamed. And I've cried. And I've started running just to see if I could outpace my thoughts on a sandy beach or a trail through the woods.

Everyone knows this painting. Loves this painting. People walk through the gallery everyday and take selfies screaming with The Scream. And ironically, after sitting next to The Scream, I didn't want to scream. Instead, I wanted to smile, because the world, with its admiration for this work of art, had given me permission to be lonely.

And it's a funny thing, but after you scream you relax. And remember that the beauty of living in transition is being able to choose where to go next.

On the room with Monet, Manet, and Cezanne

It's such a funny thing, to walk through a room in an art gallery and see so many familiar names. It feels safe, in a way, to know that no matter where I end up in an art museum I'll find a bit of consistency. But also, I feel like such an idiot -- I'm lucky enough to travel and see all these paintings and I don't have the background to understand what I'm looking at. I see beauty. Skill. Differences. But I don't see progressions, transfer of knowledge, departures from a norm. I don't know which cities were important to artists at what time. Or who taught whom. I don't know early years from late years.

I want to learn to see. In art. In landscapes. In everything. I just finished reading Sherlock Holmes and so much of that is about noticing details and knowing how to place them in context. The only paintings I can place have Norwegian folk costumes - and I'm only starting to be able to remember these distinctions.

The princess

Even the fairy tale princess doesn't like to spin. She sits on the ground with it dropped in front of her,
looking like she just wants to steal a moment for herself.

The three women on the bridge

A moment can be enough. It's fuzzy in front of them. The road ahead is all swirls and confusion. But for them, it's a moment watching the river and not looking at the progression. Maybe I'll learn this lesson eventually...