Musings at the Museum

This is a collection created entirely due to my tendency to people-watch instead of get overly involved in the artwork. People, I believe, are the greatest forms of art from which we can learn more than if we were to be observing anything else at all. Photos by Sarah Bush.

(Above) This is the gentleman who works at the information desk. Everything was organizde into perfect, neat piles. The gray/ blank lighting and expression offers a feeling of boredom and duty. He is, at this moment, listening to the inquiry of a visitor.

(Above) My photographer friend, Piotr, admiring a piece or artwork in one of the stairwells.

(Above) Woman lost in thought. I wonder what she is thinking about. I like that she is not looking at the artwork, but musing about something else entirely as she gazes at the floor.

(Above) These two did not say two words within the span of ten minutes. I guess they know each other too well, which I suppose is far from a negative thing. They were people watching too.

(Above) Admirers of this stature. I like the way their heads are all bent towards each other. It looks balanced and thoughtful, and the statue appears as if it is annoyed by their gaze, which I find adds a bit of comic relief to this elegant photo.

Chicago Art Museum Pieces

After the morning with the cats, we spent an afternoon on an excursion throughout downtown Chicago, which included the art museum. Here are a few interesting snapshots of the museum's pieces of work and architecture. Photos by Sarah Bush.

(Above) Staircase in one of the lobbies. I like the contrast emphasized by the black and white color filter I used, as well as the aesthetic lines that curve at pleasant ratios throughout the photograph.

(Above) I love the way the lines of the hallway converge at a place just beyond the vase, as well as the character enhanced by the lighting.

(Above) A very Lladro-esque miniature statue. I like the sculpted movement of the cloth garment, as well as the expression of the face, blurred, just beyond that. The lighting also enhances the grooves carved into the piece.

(Above) This is actually a roughly 3' by 3' box/ diorama display of a room. This particular gallery was filled with miniature scenes and rooms from houses with decor ranging from the 17th to the 20th century. Photographs snapped up close appear as if they are of an actual, life-size room. It was amazing. The way the artists re-created natural lighting was incredible.

Lazy Day for the Felines

Spending a lazy morning with a friend's roommates' cats in their apartment in Chicago. It was a very snowy, cold day. We all curled up in the gray light pouring in from outside, pretending there was absolutely nothing better to do. Photos by Sarah Bush.

Oh Clementine

This set of photos depicts the stripping, nakedness, appreciation and consumption of a sweet Clementine. Photos by Sarah Bush.

John owns a small Guitar Shop on the corner of 24th and University. Just while I was there, visitors would come and go, chatting with John, most times not even making a purchase. One person even sat down, played piano for a while, and left. Although John is usually up wandering around, I caught him mid-transaction. I like the character of this photo...the natural lighting, and the random objects placed haphazardly around...prescription bottle, coffee mug, post-its, a cowboy figurine etc. You can also see John's aged face clearly due to the direction of the light falling. What you can't see is is long, hippie-like hair. Maybe next time. 

Never

When I was a little girl, I asked my mother

How I would know when I had found my soul mate.

She took me into her lap and said,

"My sweet girl, you will just know.

You will get butterflies in your tummy when you look at them.

And you will want to be around them

because they make everything more fun.

They will make you laugh and laugh,

and they will take care of you

like we do now…

so that when we aren't here anymore,

you will still be happy."

I thought about this for a minute,

Nuzzled my head in the crook of her neck,

And stared at the open doorway, deep in thought.

I was still hard for me to understand…

A concept I did not think my young mind

Could wrap around.

 

Then my father walked in.

Up against my ear,

I could hear Mommy's heart beat

a few thumps faster.

On my forehead, I felt her cheek grow warm…

and flush rosy pink.

He paused just inside the door, and smiled at

the two of us.

"The two most beautiful girls in the world,

sitting in my house…" he said.

"How did I ever get so lucky?"

I heard the quiet crinkle sound of Mom's lips

as they pulled up into a grin,

And when I looked up at Dad, his blue eyes

were dancing.

Leaning over, he kissed Mom on the lips,

then me on the forehead,

and then he sat down and lifted the both of us into his lap.

"Daddy," I giggled. "Aren't we too heavy for you?"

He squeezed us in a brief embrace and said,

"Never."

 

When I grew up, I fell in love with you.

And it was the first time I knew what Mom

had been talking about all those years,

explaining to me what love was

in words that could never suffice.

As cliché as years of experience has made it sound,

I did get butterflies.

And one day, I was holding my little cousin on my lap.

You had been helping my dad with something,

and were finally finished.

As you walked toward me,

I couldn't even help but smile,

and my cousin's head shot up,

"Your heart's beating really fast," she said, and she giggled.

I just poked her on the nose and sent her off to play.

So you sat down,

and took me on your lap.

"Aren't I too heavy for you?" I chuckled.

"Never," you said.

 

Someday, I will be an old woman.

I will look back at this particular decade of my life

with greater fondness than any other decade.

I will let my eyes unfocus, and my mind wander over these memories

more than any others I possess.

My wrinkled, fragile fingers,

will caress these photos until the edges are dog-eared.

I will re-read the letters

until the ink is smeared with tears

and the paper has fallen to pieces.

And although you may hate me for saying so,

I have a very special wish…one wish…

for that day in the future when this happens.

And the wish is

that another pair of sturdier wrinkled hands

will reach out

to give a second look to,

and then gently slide each photo into its spot

in the albums…

The hands will use a tissue to blot at the tears

before they smear the ink,

and then will cup together

to catch the delicate petals of paper as

they crumble.

And when the hands reach out again,

they will take my frail, aging body into a lap

on which I have sat many times,

and run gently through the locks of my

white hair.

I will say, "Darling, surely I am too heavy for you now."

And I wish with all my heart,

that you would be there

always,

to say,

"Never."

Fitting

It doesn't quite fit.

I've put this on,

this newness,

Told myself, "Yes, this is how it should be."

Worn this newness proudly and positively.

Others notice...say,"She looks good...happy."

I do, don't I.

And yet, I am

Twisting it slightly this way and that

Pulling it down to cover this,

Stretching it over to reveal that,

Adjusting the size,

Sucking in,

letting out,

Scratching where it itches.

Something just isn't quite right with it...

Doesn't quite fit.

This new life feels weird on me....

I want to exchange it.

"I'm sorry, Ma'am. I must have made a mistake.

This does not work on me at all."

I want my old clothes back.

I want the worn-in, faded comfort.

I want the thick, fuzzy "Good morning" and

"Merry Christmas."

I want the henley, the waffle-print "You're cute" and

"How was your day" imprinted on my cheek.

I want the thin, breezy "Let's go for a walk" and

"Wait for me" pale against the tangle of my hair.

I even want the bare nakedness,

The warm, soft "I love you" and

"Goodnight" with a kiss melting on my shoulder.

But I am told there are no returns.

No exchanges.

My old clothes have been pawned off

To others more deserving.

Did I really give them up?

Or did you strip me of them?

I cannot remember, but wish,

Desperately, that I knew whose fault it was

that nothing fits me anymore.

So I leave,

Bringing with me the ill-fitting,

Ill-gotten garments that are all I have left.I

put them on,

Grimace,

but wear them nonetheless...

Walk to my dresser and remove

One shirt I have of yours...

Smells like you...

And breathe it in.

It fits

Even if just inside,

For a moment,

And as an illusion,

It fits.

I put it back.

My brief and fleeting comfort.

Into the drawer of everything else that

Will never fit.