Encounter in the Philadelphia Museum of Art

Walking through the Philadelphia Museum of Art with my hands in my coat pockets, I fingered my camera as I stared at the many paintings. My sister was enraptured by some Cézanne, and I lost my friend in a series on poplar trees. I had just left the Impressionists with a memory newly touched by fresh and beautiful images of thick brushstrokes and exaggerated, dreamlike colors.

However, I decided to give the other pieces some attention and began to explore the modern art section. I looked at a soapbox sculpture by Andy Warhol and tried to interpret its meaning, then peeked at a collection of forks and knives dangling on a string from the ceiling. After more searching, I finally entered a room with seven or eight paintings, all of which dated after the 1950s.

There were a few interesting paintings in the room, but none that really struck me as anything special, so I was about to leave. Suddenly, though, I noticed a woman sitting on a bench in the room, staring intently at a painting. She was dressed in the navy blue uniform that identified her as a worker at the museum, and she had gorgeous chocolate skin. She appeared to be in her early thirties, and her eyes drooped from the exhaustion of a long day. But there she sat, looking at the painting. Her mouth frowned slightly as she stared, as though the painting resonated some long-forgotten yearning.

I looked at the painting to try to understand her captivation. I wish I could remember its exact details, but all I can recall is that it had a violin in it. My mind was still trapped in the confines of a Monet painting of London’s Waterloo Bridge in the fog. I had stared at that painting for quite some time, getting lost in the swirls of gray wrapped around the bleak stony blue bridge. The painting looked just like the city had one day in December of 2009, when I was on a break from my studies at Oxford University. A light mist covered the ground as the wind blew fresh snow in my face, and I was walking through London trying to find peace and solitude in what had been a miserable day. I had gone to Hyde Park to see if it was really as picturesque as the Romantics seemed to imagine, and the cast-iron street lamps shone through the snowy mist with a glow reminiscent of nineteenth century oil lamps. I closed my eyes and held tight with wet mittens to my cup of Galaxy hot chocolate, hunched against the cold as the moisture from my breath began to freeze and melt on my scarf with every inhale and exhale.

I hadn’t seen Waterloo Bridge that day, and staring at Monet’s painting, I wished that I had walked to Hyde Park from Baker Street instead of taking the Tube, even if it would have taken me several hours.

Knowing how much the Monet had affected me, I wondered with even more intensity what memory or emotion the violin painting induced in the woman. Suddenly, as people often do, she sensed me staring at her and turned slightly, scowling just enough to let me know that my gaze was unwelcome. I pretended to observe the painting directly past her. She turned back to her painting, picked at her nails for a bit, and looked back at it, having already forgotten our brief encounter. She exhaled deeply, and I could sense that her mind was in the painting, far from the museum and Philadelphia.

I had the sudden desire to ask her about the painting. Why did it provoke such an emotional response? What did she see when she looked at the brushstrokes on the canvas? What did she feel? What was her story, that a simple painting of a violin could entrance her when she worked at the museum and had seen hundreds of paintings every day of her career? I wanted to ask and even felt my mouth begin to open; but I panicked. I didn’t want to ruin her moment, to break her train of thought. Suddenly I thought the worst: what if she wasn’t entrapped by the painting? What if I was over-romanticizing the situation? She might have been bored and simply staring at whatever met her eye-level, and that painting could have been nothing for her but a distraction from her tedious day. How strange would it be, then, if some creepy red-haired girl interrupted her boredom to ask what she thought about art?

In my hesitation, I lost all courage. I wanted to beg her to tell me what she thought, but for some reason I could not. I walked out of the room and made my way back to the Monet. My friend and my sister were nearby and ready to look at other exhibits, but I stopped once more to stare at my painting. I thought about that day in Hyde Park and how the cold mist felt on my tender face, and I closed my eyes to remember.