Art Meets Artist

The crocuses had already “croaked”, the daylillies had bloomed and withered, their yellow flowers drooping pitifully in the afternoon breeze.  There I sat reading my latest copy of American Artist or perhaps it was The Artist’s Magazine.  It was an innocent act of a hot spring afternoon, when I came upon, “The Article”, innoculous enough, half hidden in the “coming events” section.

Excitedly I propped the magazine under my arm and went in search of my husband.  “Bill,” I said.  “Is the Smithsonian in Washington, D. C., too terribly far from here?”

“Only about 1500 miles from Houston to Washington, D.C.,” he cheerfully smiled not yet comprehending the massive cross country adventure I was about to spring on him. 

“Good,” I replied, “I thought it was further.” 

“However,” he interjected, “if we are going as far as D.C., perhaps we could drive slightly further.  I would like to see the coast of Maine again… AND Canada seems rather nice.  We have never been to Canada where each day 100 billion tons of seawater flow in and out of the Bay of Fundy.  And then there is Campabella where Franklin Roosevelt had a home,” excitement glittered in Bill’s eyes.  

I could tell that he was getting excited about taking the trip.  Me, I was worried whether I could swim good enough to tred water in 100 billion tons of seawater. 

“Excellent,” I replied.  My lawnchair remained abandoned, my ice cubes melting in the air deluting what was left of my afternoon tea break.  Suddenly I was oblivious to the external events unfolding outdoors,  I was too busy indoors preparing for our slight jaunt into the countryside.

Two months later with blisters on my fingertips from scrubbing, painting and wallpapering our camper, we were at last ready to go museum hopping.  The butane tank glowed a perfect white, the trailer was respelendent in it’s black coat of Rustoleum paint.  It is best not to mention at this point what the undulating roads of New York did to that pristine camper.  Some things are better left unsaid.  I will only say that I still have the parts that fell off the camper hidden in some dark forboding corner of my garage. 

I might mention that Bill likes to start off every trip we take with some kind of crises.   He always finds something wrong with the car before we even get out of the driveway.  So there we were speeding down the Houston freeway with the trailer swaying happily behind us, when Bill got this look on his face. 

“What’s the matter?”  I frowned.

He stared at the car gage.  ”Well,” said Bill, “if the oil indicator says zero and the engine has not blown up, then perhaps there is oil.”

“Yes, I would think so,” I replied.  Deductive logic makes life so much easier.  But as we drove, I kept thinking, “Blow up!  The car might blow up at any moment?”

At this time I did not know that I would almost drown in the rain that poured down on the national mall and catch pneumonia waiting for my ride two hours later in the freezing National Gallery of Art.  I would get lost at the Boston Museum, be surrounded by women dressed in their finest while I stood amongst them in my shorts and mud-covered tennis shoes in the National Museum of Women, visit the Cone exhibit at the National Gallery of Art in Washington as well as the Hirshhorn Museum.  With serendipidity guiding me I would chase the art of Andrew Wyeth through Maine to the Farnsworth Museum, to the Pennsylvania Brandywine River Museum to Wyeth’s home in Chadds Ford.  Go up in the aviary with the sculpture of David Smith.  Find a Cezanne in the attic, discover the roots for the art style of Louise Nevelson, learn how the Winslow Homer watercolors had their own little beds in Portland and be amazed by the way Andrew Wyeth painted every little fiber in the sweater of his model, Helga, and how I asked the scandulous question of the two women working at the desk of the home where Wyeth had painted Christina’s World. 

Next stop on my museum trip will be Washington, D.C. and all the museums along the National Mall.  Be sure to come back, you don’t want to miss how I got my camera grabbed by an irate guard at the National Gallery of Art, met the woman with mink eyelashes and witnessed the sex change of Joan Miro while waiting in line for my ticket.     

Written by Sandra ColleRain Copyright © 2009

www.MasterOfPsychicEnergy.com

Tags: American Artist, Andrew Wyeth, Bay of Fundy, Boston Museum, Brandywine River Museum, Campabella, Christina's World, Farnsworth Museum, Freanklin Roosevelt, Helga, Hirshhorn Museum, Joan Miro, Louise Nevelson, museum hopping, National Gallery of Art, National Museum of Women, Paul Cezanne, sculpture of David Smith, Smithsonian In Washington DC, The Artist's Magazine, Winslow homer

This entry was posted on Tuesday, April 28th, 2009 at 4:19 am and is filed under Art Museums. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.