ART

He had never been to a museum before so as we stood at the bottom of the endless stairs leading to the door, he seemed confused. We gazed up quietly, his small hand in mine, and took in the enormous stone walls.

“This is a museum?” he finally asked. “What’s a museum again?”

I instinctually began to answer “Just a building” but stopped when I realized that wouldn’t be enough. Not every building is a museum and not every museum is a building. Objects on display don’t make a museum, this was not a Sharper Image for mummies.

“It’s kind of a place where you go to think about things. That’s what muse means. So in a museum you can look at stuff they’re showing and gather ideas. Like an aquarium holds water, a museum holds thoughts.”

He looked up at the stone pillars again, his eyes widening and his hand growing tighter around mine. He stared as if the museum were a haunted house of ghostly ideas swirling around the high ceilings. I’d wanted to inspire him but maybe I had gone too far. I myself wasn’t too thrilled about stirring up the past, poking at dormant thoughts I’d already neatly stored in boxes.

“Do we have to go in?”

I knew what was inside, images were engraved in my mind like a slide show arranged by era and time to illustrate some progression. Here is the Blue Period. These are all about Death. Here is a picture of Joy. Yet the museum was not in things, it was what we felt inside - our muse, our memories, our inspiration. I looked up at the tall building and thought how noble yet misguided the walls were, how ultimately inept. We were Outside but I looked around and the Outside became In.

“Nah” I finally said. “We don’t have to. How about we go look at a field?”

“Ok” he said brightly, his palm in mine creating something like art. “Can we roll in the grass?”

We could do whatever we want.

1:08:38 PM    sro home /