I like art museums. Denise and I both do.
Although a museum may host a variety of artists, displaying many different genres, each museum has its own flavor. Its own impact. The Prado in Madrid, for example, is a beautiful and sad museum, with seemingly countless portraits of a dead or dying Christ, and wall-sized battle scenes with war dead strewn across scarred landscapes; and this:
You walk out of the Prado knowing you have seen great art, but not necessarily feeling good about it.
Three weeks ago we visited the Museum of Young Art (MOYA) in Oosterhout, the Netherlands. It had numerous whimsical paintings and sculptures.
But for my money, this was the best:
I do not know if this is a good portrait, but the artist’s inscription is perfect.
I chuckled as we walked out of the museum. Denise poked me. “What are you laughing at?” she asked.
“Children always paint your face wrong,” I said.
The conversation repeated itself throughout the day until, finally, Denise would hear a snicker and just say, “Children always paint your face wrong.”
“Yeah,” I would say. “That’s what I’ve read.”
I walked out of MOYA not sure I had seen great art. But that was beside the point. The art made ME feel great.
Even as I write about it now, three weeks later, I am smiling.