Museums
I turned a corner and saw her, whom I had only seen in pictures. And as is always the case, the visceral reality of her presence was arresting in a way that no printed picture or image on a screen could convey. My heart felt constricted and I exhaled audibly. She was beautiful. Breathtakingly so.
She didn’t see me, of course. She lay in the forgetfulness of sleep, a flush on her cheek and her body curled and soft.
She was, in that moment, the perfect image of repose: comfortable, sensual, deeply relaxed, safe. She was sprawled on a wide cushioned chair in the filmiest of gowns gathered in whorls and bunches around her. Her lips softly parted.
I could see her body through the almost transparent garment. The curve of her calf, the roundness of her naked bottom, her nipple. I was bewitched: my heart pounded in my chest.
I was standing in the Metropolitan Museum of Art, and the woman in front of me seemed so real that for a moment I believed I could wake and touch her.
This is the way I experience art: like a blow that takes your breath away, like a sudden realization, like at last returning home. I have never studied art and know little enough about it, except what I see. But I cannot help it — I feel its power.
Sometimes, when something is poignant for me, when it connects with some emotion that lives…
