 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. |
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