Ode to the Museumkaart

I love art. But I hate museums.

Okay, I don't really hate them but they make me uncomfortable. I get hot; my back hurts; I look around at all the other museum patrons and wonder what they see in that painting that I seem to be missing. I hate being jostled when I'm trying to enjoy an artwork! And I especially hate that feeling that I'd better make sure I see all the important stuff because I won't get another chance, and besides, I paid $15.00 and I'd better get my money's worth!

Here's what I love: living in a place long enough that I know I will be able to come back to its museums again and again. And having a Museumkaart that gives me free entry so I don't feel like I have to make the most of each visit. I can go for half an hour and look at three paintings if I want! And then if I feel like it, I can come back again tomorrow. Bliss.

That's what I did yesterday at the Rijksmuseum (which, by the way, is ultra-manageable if somewhat limited this year because it's under renovation and they've squeezed all its most famous works into one wing). I went and looked at my three favorite paintings: the Vermeers.

Oh, Rembrandt's great, of course, especially his self-portraits. And all those fine-grained 17th-century renderings of fabric, lace and ruffled collars are indeed stunning. And I do love Hals' Marriage Portrait of Isaac Massa and Beatrix van der Laen -- check out Beatrix's expression (above)! But I'm sorry, I don't give a fig for the museum's grand show piece The Night Watch, which is technically impressive but doesn't do anything for me emotionally.

At heart I am a miniaturist. It's there in my writing -- I'm always trying to capture purely the emotional impact of one moment. The rejection letters I've received for my novel, while they usually have nice things to say, often tell me that it is "too quiet" for the current market. The truth is, I love quiet. A painting that captures a quiet moment, such as the longing of a pregnant (apparently) woman reading a letter, gripping it in both hands, or even the placid concentration of a servant girl pouring milk into a bowl, can make me teary. If it also renders subtly and perfectly the quality of morning light filtered through a latticed window, then I may have trouble tearing myself away.

Thanks to my Museumkaart, I will go back and look at my Vermeers again and again before we leave Amsterdam.

P. S. Thank you to those who have written me about my father. Life is not the same without him, but it's a comfort and an inspiration to look back at his life and see that he did not waste his time on earth. I am grateful for the lessons and the the love and support he gave me, and most of all for his wonderful company all these years.

AWOL Redux

For anyone who is following this blog, it may appear that I have abandoned it. I have not. But I am learning there are some times when you can't blog.

I've returned to the U.S. for a while to be with my father, who is dying. It's too private to blog about, and too deep and essential to consider writing about anything else right now.

I enjoy writing this blog, and reading your responses. I will return to it (and to Amsterdam) soon.