A whirl. A spinning,
twirling, flitting whirl. That’s what my
year has been.
Facebook reminded me this morning that one year ago I was on
a train going to St. Petersburg, Russia.
One would think by then it would seem common for me to travel alone in a
foreign country. I should not feel a
thrill of victory at my independence and ability at all. Yet, there I sat thanking God for making me
somehow have the skills to manage it all.
The image of my face in the train window came to me again
yesterday on my way to Chicago. I was
meeting a friend to have breakfast and then head to the Art institute. I had been told the impressionist works there
would make my mouth water.
The comparison to the year before was continually walking
through my memory. I had gone to St.
Petersburg, in part, to meet a friend. We
would visit The Hermitage, filled with breathtaking works. I was reading Natasha’s Dance, a cultural history of Russia, at that time. Internalizing the history of Russia while
walking among its remnants was especially poignant for me.
The conductor’s voice brought me back to present. I am still sometimes surprised to hear the
English language in unfamiliar public places.
The train in America is not a common form of transportation
and so it wasn’t very crowded. Mostly
holiday travelers who, like me, didn’t want to drive to Chicago and pay
exorbitant parking and tolls. I spent
much of the trip listening to two women behind me talk loudly about personal
business – theirs and other’s. A sharp
contrast to the near silence and hushed movement of the Russian Rail.
Chicago’s Union Station rivals the greeting station in St.
Petersburg. Its marble stairs dressed up
for Christmas were festive and welcoming.
The crowd was friendlier to a stranger, but that could be due to
language and my own comfort level.
Perhaps if I spoke Russian I would not have felt distanced from the
crowd of St. Petersburg. Or perhaps it
was the warm greeting of my friend waiting for me in the center of the grandeur
of Union Station.
We walked briskly from the station catching up on each
other’s lives. I always enjoy the
company of my brilliant young friends. I
am sure they make me smarter just by osmosis.
I was flooded with memories as we sat in the European café,
Le Pain Quitodien, on Michigan Avenue.
The chain was a favorite in Moscow.
An easy meeting place. “how about
Le Paine at Park Kultury?’ “We could
meet at Le Pain at Red Square and walk from there.” “There’s a Le Pain near the Metro. Let’s stop there.” You could expect a good bowl of coffee, fresh
bread and pastries and quick service. It
was not fast food, but always fast and fresh.
Like any good franchise, it was much the same in Chicago as
Moscow or St. Petersburg. The same
coffee bowl, the same chocolate chip cookie stack at the pastry counter, the
same salt and pepper shakers even. It
was good, comfortable, like finding an old friend in an unexpected place.
The Art Institute felt somehow familiar, too. Similar to The Hermitage, I was greeted by a
long queue waiting for tickets. However,
the American version moved much more quickly, happily, loudly. Within five minutes we were at the doorway to
the collections.
“Impressionists first?”
My friend asked.
“Yes, of course.”
Monet, Degas, Renoir, Seurat beckoned us. Swirls of color, light, dancers, flowers,
absolute spring time embraced us. I
reveled in the joy of their brilliance.
At times breathing deeply as if I could inhale a moment of their
greatness.
Van Gogh looked slyly from the corner as if to question our
questions of his use of colors and shapes.
“You don’t like it? What?
You think blue instead of yellow for her face? To me yellow was pretty, summery, light. You can see it in all of my favorite
pieces. And why are you standing so long
before the piles of grass? I made those
as a study. Just a study! They don’t mean anything. Leave them behind. Go, now, get out!”
I was very surprised to find that I could recognize some of
the artists simply by their works. When
had this happened? This knowledge of
art? Where had I acquired this
kindred-ness to the masters? Was it at The
Hermitage? Tretyakov Gallery? MMOMA?
The Garage? The exposure to
greatness had infiltrated and changed me.
Phrases from Natasha’s
Dance came to me as I noted Russian artists spattered in the Institute’s
collections. Especially true as I stood
entranced before the Marc Chagall America
Windows. The blues, the lights, the
peace, the breadth, the depth of the entire work pulled me in. I was sorry he had lived through so much
political unrest and discrimination. I
was selfishly glad the broad living had expanded his talents so I might enjoy
them.
A boy of about 10 sat on the bench before the windows
similarly captured.
“Do you like it?” I
asked.
“Yes.” He answered
seriously. He stood as though to leave
and let me sit.
I continued. “What do
you like about it?”
He sat again and turned his head to take it all in
again. “The blue. I like the blue the most. And the small pictures.”
I nodded in complicity.
“Yes, I do, too.”
“And the instruments.
I like the instruments.”
“Ah. I see them,
too.”
We continued comparing the big and small of the windows
before us. I could sense something
special about this child. An artist’s
eye, a creative genius beginning. He
looked deeper into the art than most boys of 10 would bother. He was patient to see the whole story.
A young girl came to
sit beside him. At first I think she was
checking the conversation, making sure I wasn’t bringing some kind of harm to
him. Then, realizing I was tapping into the young artist’s creativity, she
smiled and quietly listened. I wished
later I had gotten his name. I think I
will see it written on a canvas someday.
There were other such moments of awe as we flowed through
the galleries. Cubism, minimalism,
impressionism, realism and a host of other -isms swirled around us. My companion of the day is a brilliant
musician who uses her talent as a teacher.
Her insight of the intertwining of art and music was fascinating. We discussed the closeness of genres in
Europe and America how music and art and literature reflect upon each other.
After my friend left to catch her train, I roamed around
alone for a bit basking in the city lights.
Much like I had done in St. Petersburg the year before, I sat at a
Starbucks watching the locals. Rushing
home from work. Stopping for a quick
warm up. Chatting together before going
to some other event.
Last year it was a mall Starbucks which became my writing
spot. Amidst the glitz and glamor of
holiday shoppers, I tucked into a booth while words fell from my hands. Immersed in strangeness, it was still
comfortably familiar. I couldn’t
understand their words, but their faces told the same story. Love of family. Joy of friendship. Excitement of travel. Weariness of work.
As I considered my visage in the window of the night train I
was glad for all of the living, stretching, breathing, learning. I am thankful for a God who helps me to seize
the day and allows me many opportunities.
I hope I am living as someone worth His investment.
You may have seen a quick day trip to Chicago. Now you know what was felt through this
writer’s eyes.
Note to my regular readers:
Thank you for your support and encouragement. For more pictures and insight, find me on Facebook - Kris A. Newman. To order copies of The Book of Pages About Crossing Bridges or A Friend Named Jesus, please message me.
Merry Christmas and a blessed New Year! Let's unwrap 2017 together!
- Kris
