listening in quiet places

Walking through the grand entrance, she feels as though she is entering a church. There are some places, indoors or outdoors, that just feel holy. Sometimes it's the beauty of the view, the love with which the structure was created, the tangible feel of history just out of reach, and sometimes, it's what is in the place that makes the difference.

Similar to a cathedral in more ways than one, the high ceilings and detailed architecture impose an air of quiet reverence upon visitors. She feels the contemplative silence of the art museum curl around her feet before enveloping her entirely.

She walks slowly from painting to painting. First gazing from a distance, then gradually creeping closer until she is an arms length away from the art work. She likes to take in the whole picture, then break in down into details; the brushstrokes, the textures, the individual colors and shapes. She moves closer still, all she sees are meaningless pieces of the whole. Beautiful, fragmented parts that together are called a masterpiece. One of the museum guards circles near her, she leans away from the painting as he watching, taking care that he sees that she's not touching or threatening the art in any way.

The museum is busy on this Saturday afternoon. Couples, young and old roam around her, appreciating the art, but still moving quickly. They have schedules, movies to catch, dinner to eat. She is an anchor in their wake, spending time with each piece that grabs her heart, her eye, her curiosity.

The couples discuss the art as they flow around her. The dynamic seems to be consistent. In a group of two, one is knowledgeable, sharing what they've learned and the other is listening, nodding, asking questions. They are quiet and quick, moving eagerly from point to point. "See, this painting was before the Campbell soup screen prints and the Monroe prints. One of the first. He just figured out how to silkscreen pictures on canvas like this. . . Oh, look at this one!" And they're onto the next and next.

Some of the conversations between couples aren't in English. She listens, while studying the tiny painted cars on the freeway wrapped around a California cliff, trying to pick out the meaning behind the foreign tongue. Brain resisting her efforts to recall past semesters of foreign language, she manages to gleam little from the chatter. pintura, realismo, político.Admittedly, in an art museum, some of the things English speakers say are just as difficult to translate.

It’s odd the way looking at so much beauty can make her feel this way. Refreshing, intoxicating, and then cleansing. Hours later, when she finally drifts toward the exit, she wonders if leaving will break the spell. She hesitates, lingering by the tall, stately columns that line the entrance before pushing through the swinging glass doors. She breaths deeply, comforted by the feeling that is carried in her, even out the door.