Horror, repulsion, bafflement. These were strange emotions for me in a place that normally signified beauty and order and peace.
I had walked right into the same art museum I had visited a hundred times. Usually, I would go up the stairs one level, pass by the front desk, and head directly into the European art hall. On a normal visit, Gauguin’s Pont Aven collection summons me siren-style, then I wander forwards and backwards to Cezanne, Pissaro, Monet.
But on one particular summer day, I decided not to treat the art museum as my own private collection. I walked into the less familiar galleries to look at art from different traditions, other sensibilities, continents where my ancestors had never traveled.
:: CONTINUED ::
Join me today over at Tweetspeak Poetry where I am talking about art, fashion, and life transitions.