les nymphéas

i have had some pretty incredible experiences with paintings, including the time i “fell” into a picasso, had a vision, then spent the next five minutes wondering if i had somehow accidentally taken drugs. it was that vivid. i’m not joking. tangents aside, i have never experienced paintings like i experienced monet’s water lilies at museé d’orangerie.

in the same way the announcer prepared me for the experience i had nearly 7 years ago listening to samuel barber’s adadio for strings in minneapolis, the white room you enter first before the two rooms of water lilies, in their own understated way, heralded the importance of what lay just beyond.

i remember thinking ah, a palette cleanser as i entered the entirely white vestibule and paused long enough to read as much on my brochure. but as i stood there sloughing off the world outside, drawing myself in and preparing my spirit to be immersed, i also took in the fact that every other museum go-er, quite a few in a several minute span, blew right through the room to get to the other side. i hate to admit a certain superiority that swept over me, but it was tied to a sadness that no one else seemed to be paying attention. how could they miss something so obvious? 

pause.

and then i entered the first room.

what can i say?

it was beautiful. it was quiet. even with all the people, most respected the posted signs for silence by at least maintaining a whisper. and really, it was just surprisingly overwhelming to be surrounded by mural-sized monets. his depth, color, and tone something you could swim through for hours seeing something different each circuit of the room. paintings of that size offering so much space for variation. color. texture. details. darkness & light. a whole panel of dark on dark. eggplant. staccato of lilies throughout.

but the thing that surprised me the most, the thing that i could sit and absorb for hours was the calm of the space. the peace. peace in a way my always-going-a-million-miles-an-hour-brain often finds so elusive. even the pressure to observe, to articulate, to understand and gain something intellectual from the work {my art student training probably won’t ever leave me} was completely derailed by the quiet demand the rooms made to just sit and be. breathe in the colors. breathe in the space. just breathe.

so i did. for hours. and when i had my fill and tried to look at the work downstairs {a spanish exhibition} i felt such a strong pull back upstairs that i had an impatient disregard for the {high caliber} work in front of me. eventually i obeyed and returned, strolled through the two rooms of water lilies. sat some more. meditated.

monet understood the sanctuary of art and here i am a century later, benefiting from his genius.