I haven’t experienced summer like the rest of the world knows it for years now. To me, summer is a blasted wasteland, a time in which to avoid the outdoors, to learn to love air conditioning, to appreciate being at work and to anticipate the coming of fall. Here, it’s the time to be outside, it’s evenings wandering around, it’s fresh-cut grass and softball games. I’d almost forgotten.

Tomorrow, I’ll be back in Tucson, just as the monsoons are hitting. Over a hundred degrees, over seventy percent humidity, a wall of heat just outside every door. The realities of life are coming back to me, too; I’ll need to talk to my landlord about a few things, pay bills, answer mail, all the things I’ve successfully avoided for a couple of weeks now. I’ve wandered the museums in a daze, doing nothing but absorbing beauty for eight or ten hours a day every day, and now I get to find out what I’ve learned.

Will this time end up inspiring me the way that I think it will? Will I be more relaxed with my life than I have? What has this done to my perspective, and what will that influence do?

As I leave for the airport, it’s scorching outside, and muggy. The normal summer weather is back. And in a few hours, or actually twelve hours or so, I’ll be back in Tucson.

What’s next?

I’ll head over to the National History Museum shortly; they’re open late, and I may have given them short shrift yesterday. Plus, I need some souvenirs.

Amazing pattern

I spent the day at the Freer, Sackler and National galleries, immersed in the finest artwork from the past fifteen hundred years or so. I found myself fascinated by two aspects of art today, composition and ornamentation. In looking at the exquisite pottery and late bronze work of China and Iran, I found I was stunned by the intricacy of the patterning used. In my foray to the National Gallery, I kept being struck by the careful composition that was involved in the masters’ paintings. And then in the exhibit on royal armor from 15th and 16th century Spain and the paintings thereof, the two themes collided beautifully, and I found myself marveling at the detail in the context of the elegant compositions.

I saw Renoirs and Matisses and Whistlers and Degas and Monets and Manets and the self-portrait by VanGogh, and got to examine the brushwork that went into each. Massive canvases a story tall, tiny miniatures in little cabinets, sculptures and jewelry and weapons of war.

Geometry

There’s a fugue involved in post-art-museum browsing, as there is when I’ve been to the zoo. Instead of seeing people as the animals they are, as I do after looking at animals all day, when I’ve been exposed to artwork I see the people around me as art. Every face I see through the window of a car is a portrait; the couple at the next table are telling a story with the way that they’re sitting. The world around me has become luminously beautiful.

I suppose the truth of the matter lies somewhere between the two. We are animals, and we are art.

The Washington Monument

The plan for today was to wander the Museum of American History, but I found myself thoroughly uninterested. It was bric-a-brack, detritus of the past which was only distinguished by having been touched by the hands that made history. Their magic hadn’t worn off on it, it hadn’t been made any more special by their use. It was just… stuff.

I fled to the National Gallery. I have an insatiable hunger for art these days. Seeing Rembrandt’s self-portrait, being able to look at his brush strokes upon it, the unlikely way in which he used color and texture to create himself on the canvas. This is what matters.

So now I have seen Magritte’s The Human Condition up close. I’ve seen a Jackson Pollock which filled my whole field of vision, dizzyingly. I’ve met Rembrandt’s self-portrait stare, and found it hard to tear myself away. I’ve watched Calder’s enormous mobile rotate slowly above throngs of tourists.

A view from the Portrait Gallery

I find myself inspired. Possibly overly-inspired; I’ve absorbed an enormous amount of artwork over the past few days, ranging from lunatic crafts to incredibly refined realism, and it’s overwhelming. The most important thing I think I’m coming away with, though, is the motto that’s inscribed over the Throne, the theme of the week: fear not. Do what you want, try things, see what you like, keep refining that process. Learn, expand, create, grow, make, repeat. Play with the process.

Oh, and one more thing I’ve leared. If Mr. MoonPie recommends a restaurant, listen. I had unimaginably good soft-shelled crabs for dinner this evening, at a restaurant just two blocks from my hotel. I’d never have known about it without him. If he recommends a dumpster, I’m eating there.

Lion statue from the bridge near the zoo

Misanthropic, perhaps, but listening to grade-school field trip explanations of taxonomy gets old after, well, grade school. Instead, I got a few hours of the beauty of nature, accompanied by beautiful music.

Given the opportunity and the means, I will one day acquire a red panda. Just so you know.

I didn’t expect to meet an old friend when I got to the zoo, but there he was. Uncle Beazeley, the triceratops, hanging out in a patch of foliage by the reptile house.

Surprise brontosaurus

I used to play on him when he made his home on the Mall by the Natural History Museum, when I was really, really much smaller than I am today. He still looks huge, though. He was apparently moved to the zoo in 1994, and they don’t let people play on him anymore.

The zoo is magnificent, of course, even though a lot of it is under construction and a lot of exhibits are empty. It occurred to met that an unscrupulous parent might easily convince their child that certain animals were invisible to them, leaving the child with a lifelong phobia of unseen predators that everyone else is aware of.

I found myself fascinated by textures throughout my tour. The star-shelled tortoise, snakeskin, the feathers of the kori. I was able to get a few close-up shots, thanks to how the zoo is laid out. Unbelievable how beautiful and complex the patterns can get. I’m hoping to use them as drawing inspiration.

I’m experiencing my usual post-zoo fugue, though. After spending hours wandering amongst animals, admiring their pelts and their musuclature, their feathers and their mannerisms, I can’t help but look at human beings in the same detached way for a while. We’re a strange species. Fun to watch, though.

I find myself drawn back to the National Gallery again and again. I’ve been here for a couple of hours almost every day I’ve been here, and I keep happening upon more exhibits that I never knew existed. The museum is open late, so I tend to wander over here at about the time the other museums close. I grab a drink and a snack, hang out in the courtyard and blog for a while, and then wander through the exhibits, taking my time and marveling at the marvelous.

Which is where I’m posting this from now.

I’ve been enthralled by the paintings of Renee Magritte for a long time, but I’d never seen one in person until this afternoon. In the prints, the paintings look photorealistic. In real life, seen up close, there are slightly misplaced brush strokes, tiny flaws here and there.

Detail of Delusions of Grandeur II

It doesn’t detract from the works at all, but it does inspire in me a type of hope. Once again, my theme recurs; these giants who’ve lived so long in my mind are emphatically human. And more magnificent therefore.

Sculpture can be funny.

Sculpture can be incredibly moving. There’s a rabbit huddled in a corner of an exhibit in the Renwick gallery, a sculpture called i am no one by Beth Cavener Stichter.

i am no one

The more I looked at it, the more I wanted to burst into tears, to comfort it, to let it escape somehow.

The Postal Museum sounds like it would be boring, and it really, really is.

There is a tree of wishes in the Hirschhorn sculpture garden. It’s an ongoing installation, a way of collecting wishes, and sending them to Yoko Ono, of all people. It’s for people who’ve grown out of Santa Clause, I suppose. My wish? I wish we could actually know what it’s like to be someone else for a while.

Oh, and the White House is tiny.

The Throne

James Hampton’s The Throne of the Third Heaven of the Nations’ Millenium General Assembly was built in a garage in northern DC. Hampton was a janitor, who worked on the piece in obscurity, by himself, for over a decade. He considered himself a prophet, referred to himself as a saint, wrote in a code that has not yet been broken, and created ineffable beauty from garbage.

There are worlds within us all, it turns out, and astonishing things come to pass when we let them out, in whatever form they take. Fear not.

The feeling was amplified as I wandered through the displays on the history of aviation; the Wright Flyer was vast, certainly, compared to my expectations, but the World War I planes were tiny, intricate contraptions. Standing next to machines that had actually seen combat, uniforms from soldiers who had been there, the bric-a-brac they carried in their pockets… the whole period of time became, for the first time, very real to me. Mundane. Human. I keep trying to wrap my head around the scale of the devastation that was involved, but I still can’t quite fathom the devastation of one soldier dead in the trenches, let alone millions. This brought it closer to home.

The strange sense of scale culminated when I walked around the original capsules from the Apollo 11 and Gemini 2 missions. Those things are incredibly small. I could fit four or five in my living room with careful planning, and I have a small living room. They’re smaller than my car. In the case of the Apollo 11 crew, the little can took three men to lunar orbit, stayed there sustaining one of them for 26 hours, then made it back to earth, falling red-hot through the atmosphere to splash down in the ocean. And now I’ve laid eyes upon it, it seems entirely different than the capsule that was on TV all that time. It seems cramped, and smelly, and battered, and even more legendary therefore.

The Smithsonian castle

I sense the beginning of a theme here; the humanization of legends. We see these awesome achievements that were made by the people of the past, and we assume that they were fictions, that they were larger than life and made of sterner stuff, giant-borne and towering. And instead they were just people. Wilbur Wright played the mandolin. The Apollo astronauts peed through disposable sheaths into a tube in the capsule. And then their urine was jettisoned into space. Which means that somewhere out there in between the earth and the moon, there is frozen astronaut pee, glimmering.

History is only clean and magnificent at first glance. Look any deeper, and it’s just made of humans. I expected to feel dwarfed by being in proximity to all of this greatness, and instead I feel ennobled by their contributions.

I’m writing this in the National Museum of the American Indian, full of good food and saturated in two distinct types of guilt. The museum is shutting down for the night around me, so I’m going to wander to the National Portrait gallery to close out my evening, and then back to the sumptuous hotel room to recover and read a while.

This vacation, I think, was a great idea. I had moments today, wandering the displays, when I realized I was just totally content.

I made it through the conference, a strange conflation of complaints, sales pitches, commiseration and actual contributions. It was less dire than last year, less pervaded with the awful stench of Vegas desperation, and I found myself behaving somewhat socially.

I left all that behind in National Harbor on Chesapeake Bay this morning, though, and got into my hotel in Arlington without event. The old hotel room was spacious and elegant and posh; the new one is compact and modern and posh. I have a seldom-indulged love for hotel rooms; the  feeling of luxurious transition, the sumptuous and solicitous sensation of limbo is addictive. Given the option, I’d live in hotel rooms, and move around every few weeks.

The National Mall is before me, museums arrayed around it, and I have a week in which to take all of this in. I’ve found out how to use the metro, I’ve stocked up my hotel room with the necessary munchies, I even did my laundry before leaving the old hotel. So the preparations are in place.

This is a good way to begin, though. Sitting under trees, on the grass, near the Capitol, watching all the other tourists go by to the sound of church bells and traffic.

The Capitol dome, this afternoon

In this universe, however, my flight is delayed. It will be taking off at about 2pm if all goes well. So I’ve got about four hours and twenty minutes to spend in the departure lounge of the Tucson airport.

Fortunately, I’m well-prepared for long delays. I’ve got a book with me, and a lot more on the netbook. TV shows to watch. Music to listen to. Enough to pass the time while I’m in limbo.

I’ve called the hotel, and let them know I may be ridiculously late. And now, all I have to do is relax to the inevitable.

Two hours later. They’ve booked me on another flight to DC, and given me a few bucks for food, and I’ve watched video and read and listened to music and I suppose it could be worse. I’m really glad I just counted on today being taken up entirely by travel.

In just three years it will be the hundredth anniversary of manned heavier-than air flight. It took a century to go from not being able to fly at all, to buzzing about in giant kites, to hurtling through the atmosphere in gigantic jet-powered cigar tubes.

I bet it took Orville and Wilbur just about as long to get off the ground that first day as it took me today. But here I am, doing the hurtling-through-the-atmosphere thing, on my way to Dallas-Ft. Worth and my rendezvous with destiny. Or at least with flight 330. I should get in at about midnight, a slight adjustment from my initial plan of sevenish, but at least I’ll get there today.

I really love the sensation of a plane leaving the runway, but I’ve never been quite as grateful for it as I was just now.

And I finally got into DC at 12:45, and got to my hotel at 1:15, where I found that they had my reservation, but no room. Half an hours’ worth of watching a clerk poke bemusedly at a keyboard later, I walk to another hotel a couple of blocks away, and collapse for four hours before getting to the conference to get registered.

So I went to the logical place to find junk furniture, craigslist, naturally, and after a day’s worth of perusals, I found a couple of low swivelly chairs for cheap. I wandered over, tried them out, forked out cash, put them in the car, and drove them home. I knew they were kind of cheap and cheesy, but they worked.

Last night, in the midst of an absolutely epic  role-playing game, one of them gave up the ghost. Faced with several hours of supporting the muscular frame of one of my players, it simply folded.

Which means that now I’m faced with the prospect of going out and buying furniture. Right before monsoon season begins, when the temperature and humidity conspire to be as lethally miserable as possible.

Which means I get to spend the day with a friend, lounging about in comfortable furniture in air-conditioned showrooms while solicitous salespeople come by and ask us if we need anything periodically.

So basically, you know… score!