Like many this summer, I was given the great opportunity to intern in D.C. Having finished my first full week, I embarrassedly admit that I have never felt more like an adult. This newly acclaimed feeling of adulthood has come with my black-and-white wardrobe, combed hair, and green ID labeled “INTERN” (the caps were apparently necessary for a dramatizing effect). Exploring this identity has been quite the learning experience, however, in the words of Neil Young, I will forever be young. Heck, I still eat Lucky Charms for breakfast, wear vanilla perfume, and breakout in song and dance to Britney Spears.
So, in order to incorporate my two identities in the real world, I came to a simple compromise: weekend adventures of complete supercalifragilisticexpialidocious. Picturing an experience similar to what Owen Wilson dreams in the movie, Midnight in Paris, it is my goal to find the living heart of this wondrous city – the breathing soul of history imbedded between every brick, building, and barricade. And, so, begins my adventure like all good tales.
I decided to spend the first day of my exploration in Chinatown. I quickly dressed in floral shorts with a t-shirt that read “hello” in seven different languages (yes, a purposely friendly shirt). I also left my phone in my purse in order to unplug from the busy, hectic world. I was off! After just a few blocks, an unavoidable smile appeared and I found myself quietly singing, “Raindrops Keep Fallin’ On My Head” (it was in the 80s and sunny…). In that very moment, I was truly peaceful; something I have not felt for a long time.
Losing complete track of my exact location and the time, I soon approached the magnificent National Gallery of Art. However, it was not the museum that brought me to the entrance, it was the vendor outside selling ice cream. After failing to find my favorite Dove chocolate bar with vanilla ice cream (I know, a classic), I considered visiting the museum. Since I was building a small sweat and my feet were killing me, I decided to check it out – it was free and air-conditioned.
As I struggled to open the enormously tall doors to the National Gallery of Art, I happened to stumble upon a set of marble stairs. As I walked up the steps, I approached a piece of art that decorated the entire wall ahead. It was beautifully friendly – almost as though the painted soldier on horseback was prancing to amicably welcome all those entering. I began searching for a name-card or even a faint signature to identify this piece of art, however, it remained unidentifiable. Weirdly enough, I became irritated and I pitied the soldier. The purpose of a museum is to identify each painting. Was this painting not deserving of at least a title?
Bewildered by the somewhat mysterious encounter with the man on horseback, I approached the end of the stairs. I stood before the entrance to my new, unexpected adventure in this tomb of artwork. The rotunda was wonderfully spacious with the purest, most delicate air. As I caught my breath, I glanced up at the large dome with glass windows shimmering against the sunlight. It looked as though light was piercing a million diamonds. Also gleaming amongst the light were giant-like pillars, seemingly protecting the vault. The emerald pillars stood ready to both safeguard and radiate the beauty of the building it supported. In the center of the rotunda posed a figure sleeplessly still as the water spouted from the fountain below. He had one hand reaching for something just out of grasp. What was it he was seeking?
Standing, silent and motionless, I began imagining myself as an 18th century French princess, dressed in the finest white satin and lace. I pictured myself walking into the ballroom of the Chateau de Versailles, which echoed the sound of laughter and smelled of the finest champagne. However, this trance soon subsided by a touristy family pushing me aside at the foot of the stairs. They were dressed in khaki shorts to the knee with D.C. street vendor t-shirts, one reading “D.C. 4 Dayz.” Realizing I was far in distance and time from Tarte and Religieuse au Chocolat, I became aware of my slightly sweat dampened t-shirt, swollen-blistered feet, and my red-knotted lioness mane, some people (on a good day) refer to as hair.
I know that time machines do not exist and real world tales rarely end “…and they lived happily ever after,” but as I entered into this gallery, I felt as though I had elapsed into a world of utopia. A world where kairos dictated the hands of a watch and every small step defied gravity – for it was the clouds for which I walked and not the hard, cold marble floor. As I danced through each of the rooms, I felt myself appreciating each work of art as if I was a close friend of the artist. I often caught myself saying out loud “good job” and “well done,” only to get looks of disturbance from other, more refined, art aficionados.
Gazing upon each of the photos, I was fascinated by what motivated each artist to paint. So, in order to replenish my imagination, I created my own picturesque timeline of each of the artists’ lives. After creating these somewhat intricate life stories, to my amusement, I grew very strong likings for some of the artists. I pictured Monet to be charming, well liked, and kind. Degas was different. I pictured him to be provocative for his time, as he toyed with emotions that I cannot fully comprehend. I found myself swiftly falling in love with Degas; I imagined elegantly dancing all night to Bach – completely swept off my feet – I was for his paintings. They were delightfully radiant and robust.
Some may view this whole experience as creepy… It sort of is. In fact, I even went so far as to label each of the nationalities with a type of relationship. I saw myself marrying the French, the English painters I pictured as friends, and the Italian painters I envisioned myself as a peer or coworker. The Italian painters were the most confident, in my opinion. To faithfully subscribe oneself to the depiction of Italian romanticism and Catholicism was remarkable. I felt mildly inadequate to critique Cosimo, Raphael, and Ricci as they seemed very sure of themselves in their paintings.
In a four hour visit to the National Gallery of Art, I made many new friends – Da Vinci, Van Gogh, and Picasso to name a few. It was not by wearing my welcoming “hello” t-shirt or from humming B.J. Thompson; it was because I dared to revel in our world’s great history and the sculptors of culture. When I stepped outside to gaze upon what was, to me, a magical wardrobe, I realized it was just an old gray building. Homeless people were begging on the steps. Old Coke bottles lay around the garbage cans from what I assume was a badly aimed, Lebron-like, poor-excuse missed basket. What lay in the now distant halls of the stone building is something that is too often forgotten: curiosity, passion, and imagination.
Like the painters, we should dare to wonder, dare to do, and dare to be remembered. Asking questions and receiving answers is something for which we must kindle passion and create peace. When I first decided to enter the National Gallery of Art, I was solely excited for the soft benches and cool air. However, I believe I left likened to the still sculpted man in the rotunda – seeking meaning day-to-day, even if it means eternally reaching for truth. We must be willing to adventure into the unknown and cast away our worries, similar to the soldier on horseback whose still life is still not fully appreciated. My first D.C. lesson was pure and simple: indulge your imagination for the things you value in life and never let your imagination be discouraged. Now, let’s dance.