Artsy in Cleveland
Yeah, so I'm pretty sure I'll never post that blog post I toiled over and rewrote four times. Oh, well.
In the meantime, I traveled for work to the exotic locale of Cleveland.
It's okay to be jealous.
So, 99.9% of the trip was work--and I mean 12-hour days doing glorified retail/marketing/corporate relations (just sent one of us to accomplish all those things!) by day and entertaining authors by night. Things went swimmingly and was feeling pretty awesome, if pooped, and due to a lack of flights (Cleveland--not a terribly popular destination), I found myself with a free afternoon before catching an early (and I mean EARLY) flight the next morning.
I should do something, I mused. Something Cleveland-y.
But I'm tired! my body mused.
Sure, I could see the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame from my (corner--cough, cough) hotel window (along with the Browns stadium and a blue sweeping expanse of Lake Erie). But . . . I kind of wanted to go to the Cleveland Art Museum.
See, for so much of my childhood (and adolescence and teens), my room had this Degas print, covered with glass and outlined with a dusty rose frame. It came with me to L.A., and then to Charlottesville, and then to Alexandria, and then to DC (though it was in storage there), then to Maryland. There, it went up on Charlotte's pink nursery wall. Now it is on the wall in the girls playroom, which I tried to make quasi-Victorian-y vintage-y (but it turns out that a bunch of plastic CRAP detracts from the Victorian feel).
My aunt gave me that print, shipping it from L.A. to me after I painted my room pink. I was in middle school, I think. On the print, it said "Cleveland Museum of Art." And, as a young lass, I naively thought, "Wow. Cleveland. That must be such a sophisticated city to have an art museum good enough to have art like that." In my head, Cleveland was a step below New York or something.
Well, I grew up, the picture coming with me, and I pretty much forgot all about from where the Degas print originated.
When I learned I needed to go to Cleveland for work, I booked my ticket and went, "Ugh, CLEVELAND" to anyone who'd listen.
I was checking out the hotel online a week or so before leaving, figuring out what restaurants and bars were there or nearby to entertain folks. I clicked on "nearby attractions," and the Cleveland Museum of Art was listed.
Heh, I thought. Because, well, Cleveland. And then it dawned on me---my beloved Degas picture. Wasn't THAT from the Cleveland Museum or Art? So I did a little research and realized that Cleveland actually really did have a world-class art museum.
Well, whatever. I wouldn't have time to go.
Except that I did, unexpectedly. Now, it was just a matter of energy.
As much as I might romanticize adventure, I am not adventurous. I longed to lay in bed in my hotel room and watch TV, which still hadn't been turned on after 3 days.
I got back to my room, finally free from all work obligations. Two walls (corner, remember?) of my room had floor-to-ceiling windows, tons of sunlight streaming in. "Don't stay inside!" the outside seemed to say. And I had to admit: I'd probably never been in Cleveland again.
With time on my hands.
During the museum's open hours.
And did I mention the museum is FREE to the public?
"I can't believe I'm doing this," I muttered to myself, changing into jeans and forfeiting a nap.
Because I am SO not the adventurous type.
A cab took me 20 minutes away from the safety of downtown and started snaking through an extensive, EXTENSIVE park. Rockefeller Park, I later learned, and it went on for miles. Eventually, I found myself at the front doors of the museum. And it being free and all, I just walked on in.
Oh. Oh! I am an introvert, but I had had to be extroverted to hundreds of people during the past few days. After being "on" for so long, and in the same room for 90% of it, I needed this. Do you know what it feels like to silently--and all by yourself--meander through some of the most beautiful art in the world?
I got to squint at engraved symbols not yet decoded by scholars from hundreds and hundreds of years BC. An Egyptian tomb. Medieval tapestries. Ancient jewelry. Modern art. Oil paintings with super pretty historical garb and sallow-looking women. Gauguin. Frida Kahlo. And the impressionists.
When I turned the corner into the wing with the impressionists, I sort of judgy judged the people taking pictures (with phones, of course) of Monet's GIANT water lilies work. Do people only care about the art they see EVERYWHERE? I wondered. And what is it that they like so much? That it's pretty? Or that it's famous?
Obviously, I'm artsier than thou. Harumph.
Then I looked to my left, and there it was. A painting I'd know anywhere. Where my artsy love affair with Degas started. It was bigger than I expected, with no dusty rose frame. This, it turns out, would not fit so well on the playroom wall, if to scale.
I got goosebumps as I gazed.
I grinned like a dork, and I couldn't stop.
And then I took a picture of it. With my phone.
Despite some concern that I wouldn't make it back to my hotel (I had to call three cab companies before one answered), I happily found myself back in my room, watching the sun set over Lake Erie, and planning what to order from room service. And whether it would go better with red or white.
Not a bad little adventure, especially for someone who really, really could've used a nap.
Now, what've we been reading?
For our long chapter book, Charlotte and I (and sometimes Lorelei) have been reading Witch Wars, which is pretty dang cute. It presents waaaay too many characters all at once (I have a master's degree in English and I can't keep them straight, so Charlotte and I are doing a lot of clarifying of who is who), but it has such adorableness that I'm overlooking the poor timing of character introduction. Kind of. Actually, no I'm not.
I finished every book I wrote about in my last blog post. I also finished two books on habits (I'll blog about that later) and have since started Thanks for the Feedback (SOMEBODY to whom I'm married thinks I'm too sensitive to helpful criticism from the couch).
I'm also nearing the end of Katherine Howe's The Phyisck Book of Deliverance Dane, which is quasi-historical fiction related to the Salem witch trials. I really like it and am anxious to get back to it, but oh, this book suffers from what most books do that bounce between two time periods: one "story" is waaaaaaay better than the other. In this case, the stuff in the colonial period is vastly better and more interesting. So, each time we pop back over to 1991, I'm disappointed and annoyed. To boot, most of the book is written in the 1991 setting. Perhaps a faster pace and less detail for the 1991 stuff would help. And the main character lacks . . . character. But hey, I'm still enjoying it.
Finally, I'm also reading An Evening of Long Goodbyes by Paul Murray, which takes place at an Irish estate with a pompous narrator who is terrified of having to get a JOB. It's very funny and droll, if a tad too meandering. But it's fun bubblegum.
In the meantime, I traveled for work to the exotic locale of Cleveland.
It's okay to be jealous.
So, 99.9% of the trip was work--and I mean 12-hour days doing glorified retail/marketing/corporate relations (just sent one of us to accomplish all those things!) by day and entertaining authors by night. Things went swimmingly and was feeling pretty awesome, if pooped, and due to a lack of flights (Cleveland--not a terribly popular destination), I found myself with a free afternoon before catching an early (and I mean EARLY) flight the next morning.
I should do something, I mused. Something Cleveland-y.
But I'm tired! my body mused.
Sure, I could see the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame from my (corner--cough, cough) hotel window (along with the Browns stadium and a blue sweeping expanse of Lake Erie). But . . . I kind of wanted to go to the Cleveland Art Museum.
See, for so much of my childhood (and adolescence and teens), my room had this Degas print, covered with glass and outlined with a dusty rose frame. It came with me to L.A., and then to Charlottesville, and then to Alexandria, and then to DC (though it was in storage there), then to Maryland. There, it went up on Charlotte's pink nursery wall. Now it is on the wall in the girls playroom, which I tried to make quasi-Victorian-y vintage-y (but it turns out that a bunch of plastic CRAP detracts from the Victorian feel).
My aunt gave me that print, shipping it from L.A. to me after I painted my room pink. I was in middle school, I think. On the print, it said "Cleveland Museum of Art." And, as a young lass, I naively thought, "Wow. Cleveland. That must be such a sophisticated city to have an art museum good enough to have art like that." In my head, Cleveland was a step below New York or something.
Well, I grew up, the picture coming with me, and I pretty much forgot all about from where the Degas print originated.
When I learned I needed to go to Cleveland for work, I booked my ticket and went, "Ugh, CLEVELAND" to anyone who'd listen.
I was checking out the hotel online a week or so before leaving, figuring out what restaurants and bars were there or nearby to entertain folks. I clicked on "nearby attractions," and the Cleveland Museum of Art was listed.
Heh, I thought. Because, well, Cleveland. And then it dawned on me---my beloved Degas picture. Wasn't THAT from the Cleveland Museum or Art? So I did a little research and realized that Cleveland actually really did have a world-class art museum.
Well, whatever. I wouldn't have time to go.
Except that I did, unexpectedly. Now, it was just a matter of energy.
As much as I might romanticize adventure, I am not adventurous. I longed to lay in bed in my hotel room and watch TV, which still hadn't been turned on after 3 days.
I got back to my room, finally free from all work obligations. Two walls (corner, remember?) of my room had floor-to-ceiling windows, tons of sunlight streaming in. "Don't stay inside!" the outside seemed to say. And I had to admit: I'd probably never been in Cleveland again.
With time on my hands.
During the museum's open hours.
And did I mention the museum is FREE to the public?
"I can't believe I'm doing this," I muttered to myself, changing into jeans and forfeiting a nap.
Because I am SO not the adventurous type.
A cab took me 20 minutes away from the safety of downtown and started snaking through an extensive, EXTENSIVE park. Rockefeller Park, I later learned, and it went on for miles. Eventually, I found myself at the front doors of the museum. And it being free and all, I just walked on in.
Oh. Oh! I am an introvert, but I had had to be extroverted to hundreds of people during the past few days. After being "on" for so long, and in the same room for 90% of it, I needed this. Do you know what it feels like to silently--and all by yourself--meander through some of the most beautiful art in the world?
I got to squint at engraved symbols not yet decoded by scholars from hundreds and hundreds of years BC. An Egyptian tomb. Medieval tapestries. Ancient jewelry. Modern art. Oil paintings with super pretty historical garb and sallow-looking women. Gauguin. Frida Kahlo. And the impressionists.
When I turned the corner into the wing with the impressionists, I sort of judgy judged the people taking pictures (with phones, of course) of Monet's GIANT water lilies work. Do people only care about the art they see EVERYWHERE? I wondered. And what is it that they like so much? That it's pretty? Or that it's famous?
Obviously, I'm artsier than thou. Harumph.
Then I looked to my left, and there it was. A painting I'd know anywhere. Where my artsy love affair with Degas started. It was bigger than I expected, with no dusty rose frame. This, it turns out, would not fit so well on the playroom wall, if to scale.
I grinned like a dork, and I couldn't stop.
And then I took a picture of it. With my phone.
Despite some concern that I wouldn't make it back to my hotel (I had to call three cab companies before one answered), I happily found myself back in my room, watching the sun set over Lake Erie, and planning what to order from room service. And whether it would go better with red or white.
Not a bad little adventure, especially for someone who really, really could've used a nap.
Now, what've we been reading?
For our long chapter book, Charlotte and I (and sometimes Lorelei) have been reading Witch Wars, which is pretty dang cute. It presents waaaay too many characters all at once (I have a master's degree in English and I can't keep them straight, so Charlotte and I are doing a lot of clarifying of who is who), but it has such adorableness that I'm overlooking the poor timing of character introduction. Kind of. Actually, no I'm not.
I finished every book I wrote about in my last blog post. I also finished two books on habits (I'll blog about that later) and have since started Thanks for the Feedback (SOMEBODY to whom I'm married thinks I'm too sensitive to helpful criticism from the couch).
I'm also nearing the end of Katherine Howe's The Phyisck Book of Deliverance Dane, which is quasi-historical fiction related to the Salem witch trials. I really like it and am anxious to get back to it, but oh, this book suffers from what most books do that bounce between two time periods: one "story" is waaaaaaay better than the other. In this case, the stuff in the colonial period is vastly better and more interesting. So, each time we pop back over to 1991, I'm disappointed and annoyed. To boot, most of the book is written in the 1991 setting. Perhaps a faster pace and less detail for the 1991 stuff would help. And the main character lacks . . . character. But hey, I'm still enjoying it.
Finally, I'm also reading An Evening of Long Goodbyes by Paul Murray, which takes place at an Irish estate with a pompous narrator who is terrified of having to get a JOB. It's very funny and droll, if a tad too meandering. But it's fun bubblegum.
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