"The Lure of Giverny"

I am stricken with regret that I did not elect to bring one of my many untouched blank journals with me to the museum. When I am inspired to write, words come to me so quickly that I can't keep hold of them... they tumble over each other into every corner of my mind and if I do not write them down they become soft and dull until they are nothing more than blurry representations of what could have become clear, focused ideas. At this point I can only do so much to recall them.

I went to the Columbus Metropolitan Museum of Art today, as it was the last day for the "In Monet's Garden: The Lure of Giverny" exhibit that graced Columbus in October of 2007. It is not often that I venture out alone to a populated venue other than Easton, but this I saw as a rare and marvelous opportunity... this was worth an anxiety attack if it came to that.

I climbed the stairs and followed the hallways to the back of the line. A young lady informed us that it would be a thirty-five minute wait from where we were, and I thought about that for a moment. This was only one day of the four month exhibit, and only one small piece of that day... yet the museum was overflowing with people of all ages who had come to see the small handful of paintings that our tiny museum was able to aquire. I cannot imagine the pride and elation that I would feel if I had ever done something in my life that even a handful of people would pay to stand and wait to see.

Behind me was a man who had obviously been dragged one too many places by his more worldly companion. She was irritated but not surprised by his continuous nagging about what they were doing there. I was mildly amused by their banter for a while, but eventually I was more annoyed by his constant prattle than she likely had ever been. One of the things he said made me think, though. The man snapped at his girfriend: "Come on. There are tons of painters in the world. Why this guy? What's the big deal? What's so great about his stuff?" She didn't have an answer for him. I have always said that Monet is my favorite painter. I had never really considered why until that moment.

After finally crossing the threshold of the exhibit, I was in disbelief. There I was looking at "The Artist's Garden, Irises," painted over a century ago. The purples were vibrant and beautiful, and I would have given so much to be able to trace the tips of my fingers over the textured deposits of oils on the canvas. The second picture before me, I could have cried tears of happiness. The crowd had parted and I found myself standing there, front and center, three feet from "Water Lilies."

I know why I love Monet's works so much. The colors and strokes are soft but vibrant. So little can appear to be so much... the paintings are simplistic but the complexity of the movement and the blending of the colors are stunning. Looking at these works of art, I picture myself leaned back in a small rowboat with a parasol shading my face, breathlessly taking in the beauty around me, myself like a figure in the painting. I love these paintings because when I see them, I feel warmth, and peace. I wish that I had been given the gift to create something that could inspire beautiful emotion in people who are separated from me by a hundred years, like Monet.

In his later years Monet continued to paint with passion despite his failing eyesight. Looking at some of these works, I was overcome with a deep sadness for him. How much did it hurt to no longer be able to see his beloved gardens at Giverny in all of their crisp perfection? How hard was it on his mind and soul to have been given the talent to define their beauty clearly with paint and brush, but to have lost the ability to do so? Or perhaps he was at peace, feeling the beauty in the way he began to see the world being transferred to his canvas.

As I found myself at the exit back into the main halls of the museum a panic came over me. I had taken my time at each painting, taking them all in one by one and absorbing all that I could... but when I realized that it was over and I should most likely never see them again, I turned and circled back, slipping through the opposing crowd for one last glimpse of each.

I cannot imagine a better way to spend eight dollars, thirty-five minutes in line, and a Sunday afternoon. On my way out I overheard that the wait for "In Monet's Garden" was up to an hour and a quarter. Had I come then I would have waited anyway, and it would have been just as worth it.