Henry
Our trip to the Walters is for Ian. I want him to see art celebrated because that’s not always something kids get to see.
I also want him to see the museum’s Art and Process exhibit, which displays famous works from inception to finished product, complete with things like sketches and notes, because it’s useful to learn that art takes time and work.
This visit is for me, too, though, because I’m depressed, and museums sometimes help.
I’ve tried and failed to talk to Brynn maybe twenty times since Grace’s crash course in my car. From various spots in my apartment, I closed my eyes, focused on breathing, and told her the most inconsequential stuff I could think of. The little things.
Nothing.
In fact, less than nothing—it’s like the already blurry image of her in my mind is getting blurrier, fading in real time.
“I love this place!” says Ian now, practically hopping up and down. He’s been like this since we got here, like he’s about to start breakdancing.
Bella stops at a painting of some elephants. “This picture’s okay, I guess.”
Aside from the M it’s the kind that runs up and slaps you, and I’m energized just being in its glow.
“I’m so glad we came here!” Ian says.
“Me, too.”
Eventually, we join Bella on her giant ottoman and stare for a while at the different pieces in the exhibit.
“When do you think they decided they wanted to be artists?” asks Ian.
“Maybe they never did,” I say. “Maybe they just always were. Like you.”
Ian smiles again the way he smiles when I say nice things about his art, and for a few minutes we just relax, because it really is nice to sit.
“These pictures aren’t as boring as the other pictures,” Bella says.
Maybe she’s just angling for another doughnut, but I’ll take that as a win.