Traveling Shoes - Baltimore, April 2012

I’m wearing my favorite traveling shoes today.  They’re reminding me of one day last April when I took the train from DC to Baltimore to meet Addie at the Baltimore Museum of Art.  I hadn't seen her in a while.  She's now living in Baltimore.  We’d never been to this museum together, though she had gone recently on her own to check it out, kind of like a scouting mission for our visit.  She reported back that it I would love it - no doubt. 

I arrived in Baltimore early in the day and decided that I would just walk the several blocks between the station and the museum.  This was after I spoke with a woman at the station who told me that it was a long walk, about 15 blocks, but on a nice day, why not?  No problem, I thought.  It was a beautiful day and I like walking in cities, so off I went.  About two blocks in, however, things started looking pretty sketchy - people and buildings, even the buses going by didn’t look very inviting.  So I kept my head down and kept walking.  About eight blocks in - I was counting the blocks - two old guys sitting on a stoop, drinking something from brown paper bags looked at me, laughed, and asked for money.  “- sorry,” I said weakly.  

With no cabs in sight, I had no choice but to keep going. Despite it being a bright blue day, the air smelled of garbage and exhaust, like one big desperate exhale.  It was a residential neighborhood, but I didn't see many residents. Through the windows I could see mostly darkness or nothing, no joy, but who can afford curtains or a plant if you're just trying to survive?  This is a reality that is so easily ignored by people who can make it different, better.   

Counting the blocks became my focus.  I was OK.  But at around block thirteen a kid approached me and circled me staring at my face and my bag. He was brazen and intimidating.  I nodded, like, hi . . .?  please don’t take my bag? - attempting to move past him, when a woman sitting on a nearby step said something I couldn’t understand, repeated it, and he backed away. I saw he was wearing an ankle monitor.  I looked toward the woman and she glared at me like I was stupid - which I was.  And I didn’t belong there - which I didn’t.  So, with my bag, I made tracks. 

When my heart returned to a normal rhythm, I noticed that within one short block - of 10 blocks of panic - the sounds, the buildings, the energy, and the mood had transformed entirely.  I was in Johns Hopkins Universityland - tony, posh, trendy . . . (I won't go into what I think about socio-economic inequality in our world) with the museum just around the corner. People were about and it smelled of cherry blossoms, croissants, and Starbucks coffee.  I did feel safer here, but somehow . . . anyway . . . it isn't right. 

Addie and I found each other at the museum entrance.  Big hug.  She looked beautiful.  City life suits her.  I told her I had kind of a scary walk, but describing it sounded dumb when I was trying to be funny and I let my voice trail off.  

“You walked!  Are you crazy?”

“I didn’t know . . . I thought . . . whatever.  Let’s go in.”  I didn’t feel like a grownup in that moment and thought perhaps there is a time when one can admit that one’s children become smarter than they are about some things.

Right away she led me into a large gallery with only Henri Matisse, a hundred, probably, paintings and sculpture.  Portrait, landscape, still-life, nude, cut-outs, with color used in ways I had never seen before.  I was energized and happy.  This was a world I could connect with.  It was all so expressive and free, I thought, kind of like Addie.  As Matisse taught me to look at art in a new way, I began to look at Addie in a new way - grownup, independent, sophisticated.

Henri Matisse
Purple Robe and Anemones

1937

It was a good day - living on the edge, taking risks, making mistakes, feeling empathy and joy.  Observing the complexity of humanity in reality and in art is important, at close range, as long as I make it back to where I am free and can find love and inspiration. 

My shoes and me.