Being able to drive five miles from my home and see world class art. From the masters. Of the Savior.
Watching a bunch of 10 and 11-year-old girls discuss symbols they noticed in the paintings and sculptures and talk about what they represent and how the art makes them feel.
Vibrant red and piercing blue on Mary's robes.
A beautiful and powerful piece depicting women attending Mary at Jesus' birth.
The face of Rembrant's Jesus.
The huge ball of fire that was the sun as it set in the haze tonight.
My 15-year-old son, who went to see the same exhibit a couple of hours later, saying, "I never realized how much I love art."
In unrelated news--that somehow now seems shallow juxtaposed with the significance of the exhibit I have just witnessed:
Having a senior account manager from New York ask me how long I've been with my company and tell me how impressed she is with my ability to capture what our clients want. (When I come home each day and have to face all the ways in which I am inadequate, something like that feels HUGELY satisfying.)
1 comment:
Oh, do I ever get you. This week, when a number of things went really really right with my young women, it was such a relief to see that at least once or twice in a while, something I do really does make a visible difference for somebody someplace. (Of course, the sand is always shifting, so I'm not expecting to stay in a satisfied spot for long. These are hormonal girls, you know.)
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