The wind outdoors has turn out to be chilly and biting, darkish and worrisome. However I can’t really feel it, not even the brittleness of my fingers that beg for heat as soon as they discover solace in a constructing. I’m right here, on the feathery edges of winter, however I’m additionally there.
There — in entrance of some paint and tiny ideas of artists lifeless and alive — I can really feel it.
It’s sunny. Within the museum, full of strangers, there’s no want for gloves or a coat or the rest. Simply you. Simply me. It may additionally be the heater.
However, I’m telling you, it’s hotter than a Georgia summer time in there, in entrance of that piece or this one or the opposite throughout the room, as a result of once I stand there, dealing with one thing that has taken my coronary heart (or I would’ve given it to them free of charge — I don’t know), I can really feel it. My coronary heart picks up and golden strands stretch throughout my chest till they snap, and I smile and every part is simply so fantastic.
This occurred just lately, and the climate is dreary now, however I actually don’t thoughts as a result of I actually do really feel fairly heat nonetheless. I walked across the wood flooring of the exhibit, my little purple footwear tap-tap-tapping amongst hushed whispers and shuffling sneakers, ready to flee the chilly. Quickly sufficient, I discovered myself beneath the solar.
German artist Gerhard Richter created “Tisch” in 1962 to embody a bridge between the types of East and West Germany. “Tisch” was a whirlwind. I stood there, warmed by the embrace of violent streaks of grey and black. Germany was nowhere close to — I noticed a woman, uninteresting and chilly and falling to the bottom in a frenzy. The hug grew tighter. Sunnier. Her little eating room had turn out to be a bit of cage colorless and deathly sufficient that dinner had already rotted away. I’d imagined her getting ready three ripe clementines to eat, however their insides have been now darkish and boiling, burying itself within the depths of the desk. She was mud, a whirlwind of a girl, skeleton and all, her fury and screams twirling across the identical 4 partitions, eternally.
A woman’s wrath, or a woman merely mourning and weeping, is just like the solar. It’s there, all the time. It’s you, protected and acknowledged. Susanna Kaysen is aware of this. There’s a scene in her memoir, “Woman, Interrupted,” the place she goes to a museum with a boy and finds a portray that brings her heat. She’s making an attempt to get out, Susanna tells him. “I see you,” she thinks. He tells her she doesn’t perceive something about artwork.
Perhaps, in entrance of the Richter piece, Susanna was the solar. Perhaps it was her who had flattened my goosebumps and held my freezing arms. We noticed the desk — the lady’s desk — however what we actually checked out was her. There was nothing in her little room besides godly grayness and melting evening, nothing on her physique besides bones and the hurricane of destruction round it. Susanna might see her. So might I.
The solar lives in artwork like this. Or I would’ve put it there. Or Susanna did. Who is aware of.