alone at the museum of modern art.
my last day in new york, i went to the museum of modern art by myself. both of the friends i was staying with were working, which worked out just fine. because i actually prefer to view art alone.
there's something sacred in going through galleries at your own uninterrupted pace, maintaining a concentration that only the absence of company can afford. it's the kind of concentration that knows no time because you are so wholly consumed by the present.
it was unbelievably enjoyable to stroll through the museum on my own and shamelessly tear up over pieces by the brilliant post-impressionist artists i studied so closely in London. i didn't expect to get emotional, but when i walked into the first room on the 5th floor and stared deep into the pointillism of a Seurat painting, i literally lost my breath. a small, involuntary gasp was followed by the strangest little tears. art elicits the most peculiar emotions, doesn't it? it's not a happiness or sadness of any sort, but a kind of overwhelming appreciation.
that day, i experienced an overwhelming appreciation for Monet's water lilies, Cezanne's bather, Picasso's repose, Seurat's sunday afternoon, and the calculated brush strokes of Van Gogh's starry night.
i feel like such a lucky girl, to have seen all of that infamous beauty in person.