November 23, 2021

So pretty I could cry. When golden hour is almost more beautiful than the golds of #Klimt

The first or second time I went to Paris, my granny told me that when she had seen Monet’s ‘water lilies’ for the first time in @museeorangerie she sat down in that beautiful ovular room and she wept. She told me this casually, as if weeping at the sight of art was as normal and commonplace as washing your hands, or crossing the street. It’s one of the many (countless) things about her that always sticks with me. She was a powerful woman, a force to be reckoned with, a lover of beauty and art and music and culture in the way that we often associate with ‘the greatest generation’.

She dragged me to countless museums (imagine a Philly accent if you will) and ballets and orchestras.

She rarely cried (that I saw) but in the face of art and beauty she would have these glistening eyes that spoke of her appreciation. That spoke of being moved.

So, all of this to say: no, I didn’t find myself weeping yesterday. If you know me, you know I’m not really a weeper. But I did find myself moved and inspired and the light was so pretty outside and the art was so pretty inside and the fact that I got to experience that kind of range of emotions on a Monday is totally not wasted one me.

Feeling moved to encourage random acts of appreciating beauty, feeling feelings, sinking into the deliciousness that is cozy warm winter season in the northern hemisphere.