Two gray haired, 70 year old companions wander through an abstract art museum. I can tell they have spent their lives together. They aren't holding hands. I watch them. One trails behind the other. And then they sit and discuss the art. Side by side. Like two friends. Barely touching, but connected. It's The Clyfford Still art museum to be exact. An artist who spent his life finding beauty in the bleak tundras of the Western United States and Canada.
Although Denver isn't considered the 'tundra', it is considered 'bleak' at least by my definition at this time of year. Snow drifts the size of small buildings encase the roads, uneven, dirty ice cakes the streets, and the brown ground peaks out for a breath of fresh air as the snow melts. The excitement of the terrain lies in the mountains that jut out from the horizon in the distance and the occasional blue sky that peaks through the heavy clouds.
I miss LA. The city life. The colorful people. The loud traffic. The sirens. The helicopters. The palm trees. The 70 degree winter days. The random encounters that make everything seem meant to be. The beauty that lies directly on the surface. The kind you don’t have to dig at all to see.
I find myself in this museum contemplating commitment as I watch the elderly companions. Is companionship like the tundra? Does it appear bleak on the surface, but does it reveal it's beauty with time and deeper understanding. A view that is anything but surface based?
I think about what these two must have experienced together. A first date. A first fight. A first time. Marriage. Birth. Adventure. Excitement. Change. Aging. Struggle. Success. Romance. Depression. Loss. Hope. Death. And probably an infinite amount of other concepts a 27 year old like me can’t even begin to imagine, let alone express.
I watch them on the bench together. Side by side looking at a mish mash of shapes painted in layers on a canvas worth several million dollars. They discuss it, almost as if they are speaking their own language that only the two of them can understand. They are making sense of life from this painting, solving the puzzle together. They understand the beauty of the tundra. It epitomizes the beauty of their commitment. Maybe a mystery to the observer and possibly even a little boring on the surface, but the layers of paint underneath and the purpose behind each stroke make perfect sense to the painter, never lacking an ounce of meaning
I look at the couple in their Easy Spirit shoes and their flannel button-downs layered beneath their fleece jackets and I realize that it is never where we are that matters. It’s the work we do while we’re there that counts.
How is it that sometimes we know certain concepts, but those same concepts can be difficult to understand? Why is it that although I know the beauty and the depth of the tundra, do I still sometimes crave the immediate satisfaction of the city? Does wisdom require restraint, and in turn does a deeper sense of beauty arise?
It must. Because how else would this couple have remained together all of these years. And how else would they be able to find so much meaning in something that could appear so bleak and simple on the surface?
We must learn to reawaken and keep ourselves awake, not by mechanical aids, but by an infinite expectation of the dawn, which does not forsake us even in our soundest sleep. I know of no more encouraging fact than the unquestionable ability of man to elevate his life by a conscious endeavour. It is something to be able to paint a particular picture, or to carve a statue, and so to make a few objects beautiful; but it is far more glorious to carve and paint the very atmosphere and medium through which we look, which morally we can do. To affect the quality of the day, that is the highest of arts.
ReplyDeleteHenry David Thoreau, Walden