Nicky and I went on an adventure to the National Gallery of Art yesterday. Nicky announce last week that he, “Want[ed] to go see paintings in a museum.” I know the feeling. If you’re planning on spending the day touring DC’s museums then you have to take the Metro. Nothing says DC commuting like an hour-long train ride. So we boarded the Vienna-GMU Orange line. I’m always a bit pensive with Nicky. He likes to observe everything without speaking and the Metro was no different. He sat down and glanced around, wide-eyed, soaking in his surroundings.
“So, this is a train?” He asked.
“Yep, pretty much.” I replied.
“Okay.” He decided and went back to surveying.
As the train began moving Nicky’s eyes widened. You can tell exactly how much brainpower Nicky is exerting by the size of his pupils. His eyes widen when he is working out problems that need answers. As the train sunk underground I was sure I would need to plunk at least one cornea back into a socket.
“Okay, now we are in DC?” He inquired.
“Well, not yet. We are underwater right now. Once we cross the water, we’ll be in DC.” I explained.
Nicky’s eyes widened to an unspeakable width and he put his hands on top of his head. “We are…underwater?” He asked.
“Uh huh.” I said.
“Oh…” He replied, putting his knees to his chest.
We arrived at our stop and emerged into the vapid DC bustle. We made it to Constitution and 6th street and walked into the National Gallery’s sculpture gardens. As we passed what appeared to be air-conditioning vents organized symmetrically, Nicky began a new inquiry.
“Why is there trash in a garden?” He wondered.
“It isn’t trash, bud, someone made this stuff. It’s art.” I said.
“Oh. It’s pretty bad.” Nicky commented.
We made our way into the East building and were greeted by El Greco and Tintoretto, two of Spain’s most renowned artists. I explained to Nicky how you can always tell if a painting is an El Greco by the elongated figures and the cold and subdued color scheme. If you wonder if a painting is a Tintoretto, look for the golden sheen present, especially on the tips of the waves.
“So what do you think of everything so far?” I asked Nicky.
“I think,” Nicky paused for a moment to contemplate, “I’m hungry.”
On the way to the cafeteria we passed Greco-Roman sculptures. Most were naked, save for an errant spear or toga.
“There are a lot of naked people here.” Nicky decided.
Yep. There are a lot of naked people at the art gallery. We made our way through the gift shop to the cafeteria. After a delicious meal of chicken strips and orange soda, we made our way into the modern art galleries. We first encountered a painting of a carpet with various objects on top of it. Most notably were a foot, a glass vase, and a tomato.
“What is this?” Nicky asked.
“Umm, good question.” I was actually wondering the same thing.
“It’s weird. What is he thinking?” Nicky wondered.
“He probably took a lot of medicine. Artists that paint like this usually take a lot of medicine. Or they’re angry at their Dad.” I explained.
“Okay.”
Next, we found a series of 24 paintings, each one color. Different colors mind you, but one color each.
“These are paintings?” Nicky was incredulous. “These are horrible. I could paint just red or blue or green or yellow.”
“Yeah, you probably could.” I agreed.
“But I don’t think I have that color purple so I couldn’t do the purple one.”
I decided the modern art would be put on hold for a few years, and so we made our way into the Dutch painters. We looked at van Eyck first. Nicky was unimpressed. I decided to not pull any punches and quickly escorted him to the Rembrandts.
“Okay Nick. Rembrandt is the greatest Dutch painter ever,” I began, “He is really good at putting light on people’s faces. Everything else is really dark, but the faces of Rembrandt’s people are very light.”
Nicky studied Rembrandt’s self-portrait for a minute or two and then circled the room once. As he returned to the self-portrait he folded his arms.
“Yeah, he’s pretty good.”
Well, if Rembrandt is only, “pretty good” then I was pretty sure everything else was mediocre at best. So I hesitantly led Nicky into the impressionists, which was my favorite section of the gallery. As we walked into the first room, a cathedral painted by Monet instantly greeted us. First there was Bright Eyes. The musician. Then there was Wide Eyes. The expression of Nicky. He moved rhythmically from Monet, to Cassat, to Renoir, eyes enormous and mouth agape. Then he stopped dead in his steps. Before us, Roses by Van Gogh. This painting is a hallmark in our home because it is one of the first times I rendered a good copy of a painting – in color no less!
“That’s Van Gogh.” Proclaimed Nicky.
I didn’t say anything. I absorbed the moment and remembered the first time I stared at a Van Gogh. Van Gogh is the crack cocaine of impressionism, once you start you can never stop. We stood in front of Roses for awhile longer and then made our way downstairs.
Downstairs waited the American masters.
“There is Gilbert Stuart!” I said giddily. Yes, I say “Gilbert Stuart” the same way a teenage girl (or a 20 year old girl) might scream, “There is Zach Effron!”
“Um, Michael. That’s George Washington.” Nicky corrected me.
He wasn’t wrong. It was a painting of George Washington, BY Gilbert Stuart. But once Nicky speaks, its law, and there really is no way of convincing him otherwise.
We finished our day at the Gallery and began walking back. We passed the Natural History Museum.
“Are there lions in there?” Nicky asked.
“Yeah.” I said.
“Can we go in?” He continued.
“Um, sure.”
We walked in and saw a really big elephant.
“Whoah, that’s a really big elephant.” Nicky said.
Nothing gets past the boy.
We made our way to the dinosaurs and saw a T-Rex, a triceratops, a stegosaurus, and the one with a really long neck. I’m a fish in water when there is art to be seen. But when there are real fish, that were alive a billion years ago, I just don’t have a clue. We stood there, looking at the bones of a whale, and I was really hoping Nicky wouldn’t have a question. But of course…
“How do fish breathe underwater?” He wanted to know.
“Uh, they have gills. I think that’s how they can breathe underwater.” I said. I mean, I was just guessing but it seemed right.
“Well, how do the gills work?” He persisted.
“Um. Have you ever seen Aquaman?” I asked.
He hadn’t, so I muttered something about special skin for underwater and led him to the jungle room. Not Elvis’ jungle room, but the room that had the lions, tigers, but no bears, so don’t be yelling ‘Oh, My!’ or you will be banned from this blog.
Nicky had another forty-seven questions about animals that I had absolutely no clue about. I tried making up answers. But after the 4th made-up answer Nicky made another observation.
“Michael, how can you know so much about art, and not know ANYTHING about animals!?”
Wide eyes. Blink. Wider eyes. Blink. Widest eyes. Blink.
“Nicky, do you want a slurpee?”
