cultured

I went to the museum today with Dave and Jenny. The impressionists made me cry (they always do). Not sad crying, just wow-I-can't-believe-something-so-transcendentally-beautiful-exists kind of crying.

Next was the Whitney (much more modern stuff). The flourescent colors, flashing lights, and swirling concert posters made me wonder "Is this art?". I see the beauty in it, I can see how it is artistic. But to me, art is defined in part by its ability to last. This show was more a documentary of an era. Or maybe I just don't get modern art. The whole museum leaves me feeling very "meh" about its contents.

The last time I'd been to the museum with Dave we took scores of photos. Him posing arms akimbo next to Picasso's Les Demoiselles d'Avignon. Me rubbing my tummy and smiling in anticipation of Cezanne's juicy apples. Another where with my furrowed brow, raised eyebrows, and extended pinky, I criticized Rodin for not endowing his naked man with a bit more naked man.

Today, we were behaved.