The lion sleeps at the entrance to the Brooklyn Museum. Both my daughter and I are drawn to him in his stone-cold repose.
On the opposite side, in the light, are the Rodin’s. My daughter stands in a circle of bronze men. I tell her that these are sculptures of a French writer, Balzac. When she asks what has she written, I can’t name a book of his (La Comedie humaine or The Human Comedy, I look up later).
Upstairs, we visit the watercolors of John Singer Sargent and I want to dive into one of his paintings the water looks that real. My daughter says that I’ll get wet.
She prefers: “The Dinner Party,” by Judy Chicago, feminist installation art. What is that? She asks. She wants a seat at the table, and I tell her that’s what it is.
I write lines in my head while walking through the museum.
This is summer so far.