I sat on a park bench this morning, nursing my hang over and watching little children play on a swing-set. Moscow and LA are two very different places but in the moment I saw the fatal flaw in both. Not enough parks with elderly couples holding hands, families out for a Sunday stroll, and beautiful children screaming with delight. It was the beginning of a deeply beautiful day. Stephanie and I wandered around St. Petersburg, stopping for several hours to shop at the flea market, lunch a quasi-Parisian café, take pictures along the Neva canals and eventually make our way to the Hermitage. The Russians compared the Hermitage to the Louvre as it was the get away for Katherine the Great and while I understand the comparison the architecture was truly unique. The first room I entered was gilded entirely in gold and the setting sun made it glow so intensely it was difficult to see. We did not have as much time as I would have liked but what I love about art museums and why I will never tire of going is that every time I go I fall in love with someone knew and discover a thought or concept I had never imagined. Today I discovered the work of sculptor, Venanzo Crocetti. He is a living artist and so different from the work I conventionally imagine when I think of sculptors of the human form. It is so difficult to describe his pieces in words but the way he used curves and fullness to define the shape of a female model and the squared edges of the male sculptor was genius.
I could have stayed there for hours but the gallery babushka scooted me out at closing. As I was leaving I walked through a sea of Monet and came to a realization. I don’t want a live in the palette of Monet. Yes, it is beautiful and lovely, tranquil and soft but I am not a Monet and no matter how hard I try my colors will always be a bit too bold, too messy, too harsh. This thought launched into a splendid conversation with Stephanie, as we killed time before our departing train, about defining yourself by an artist’s style. (We play a game in acting class where we have to ask such questions. If this person were a … what would they be? It is one of my favorite games.) And then are we what appeals to us, what we are drawn to, or is that a separate notion meaning we are individual of our tastes in others or the external. This is why I love Russia, why I love art and artists and the random conversations that happen when you have time to be with your thoughts.
I could have stayed there for hours but the gallery babushka scooted me out at closing. As I was leaving I walked through a sea of Monet and came to a realization. I don’t want a live in the palette of Monet. Yes, it is beautiful and lovely, tranquil and soft but I am not a Monet and no matter how hard I try my colors will always be a bit too bold, too messy, too harsh. This thought launched into a splendid conversation with Stephanie, as we killed time before our departing train, about defining yourself by an artist’s style. (We play a game in acting class where we have to ask such questions. If this person were a … what would they be? It is one of my favorite games.) And then are we what appeals to us, what we are drawn to, or is that a separate notion meaning we are individual of our tastes in others or the external. This is why I love Russia, why I love art and artists and the random conversations that happen when you have time to be with your thoughts.