Museums as paint chips

I went to the Art Institute at lunch. Being a member and working so close makes it easy to pop across the street and wander through the cool, semi-quiet galleries at lunch. It’s good to live in Chicago. (Until, of course, it isn’t. There’s a post in me about that, but not today.)

It says something terrible about my state of mind right now that I was admiring the paint color on the wall in this gallery as much as the paintings themselves. Because I could paint my living room that color. If we bought a condo. But should we buy a condo because we don't want to leave the city yet? Ever? Or should we keep renting?

These are not real problems.

It was a beautiful day and I ate on the patio, watched two women chase wrappers and bits of salad into the fountain after a swift gust of wind stole their lunch. Absorbed the back-lit blues of the Chagall windows. Instagrammed a portrait of a man whose wily red beard reminded me of a friend.

Yesterday, a friend sent me his column about random acts of kindness (and umbrellas). It made me stop to look at this painting. A man and woman in the rain, everything hushed and gray. Of course I was most deeply interested in her. I wonder if she loves the man who’s keeping her head dry and what they're looking at. I wonder if her feet are wet and cold, and what it smells like there. And if she finds the little black dots on her veil are annoying or a welcome shield between her and the street.

I resolve to next time stop and read the description, google the artist and learn more. But today I just wanted to wonder.