#68 MUSEUM DAY

It was a fine Saturday morning and I was looking forward to the day--great expectations, as my husband, X, was taking me to an exhibition of Impressionist works at the deYoung, a show I had been dying to see because of the Cezannes, one of my favorite artists.

X, an excellent draughtsman, says he is not all that enamored of M. Cezanne and I find this to be less than apt--how is it possible to not appreciate someone who revolutionized perception while firmly grasping the rudiments of the third dimension--his logic of perspective topped with a pleasingly naturalistic way with color, mere icing on the cake in this case, but who would want to do without it?

We were looking forward to the exhibit and in high spirits on the bus ride to the museum, normal for me but any little thing could set X off; a rude passenger, a snarling bus driver, someone talking too loud on the cell phone, so I kept up a stream of positive chatter to keep his sights set on the loveliness of the day, our exalted mission and especially, for his benefit, the lunch we would have after visiting the museum at a new restaurant/brewpub that promised, according to a review in Thursday’s paper, the finest micro-brewed ale in all of San Francisco. It was my bribe to get him to stay in a good mood throughout the museum crawl when his legs and/or feet would be killing him after the first hour, though he’d never admit to it.

When we arrived at the museum, we had not been anticipating, or I had not been, the line of people waiting to get in. I purposely put off seeing this exhibit to the near end of its run just to avoid this crowd we were now amongst, and a chance to view the works with some degree of autonomy, privacy that was no longer an option we both mentally deduced. I prayed he would not freak out but I did not want to use up all my holy capital on this so only made a mild plea for his restraint, just enough to get us inside where I felt sure the artworks would calm him down somewhat.

Naturally, he began the dreaded rant I was only too familiar with: “Now look what we’ve gotten ourselves into, what we’ll have to endure! I knew we were coming on the wrong day, look at these people, never come to a museum on the weekends, always go on a weekday, I told you that but you never listen to me, now we’ll wait forever in line and once inside will only be able to glance at the paintings, maybe three seconds, before someone will elbow us out of the way; we won’t be able to really look at anything, we’ll have to listen to kids crying, the elevators will be jam-packed, we won’t get a table in the café even if we want one, we’ll waste time waiting in line for the restrooms, it’ll just be a madhouse not at all conducive to looking at the paintings, we’re screwed, I knew this was going to happen, didn’t I tell you?” He stopped for air.

“Yes, dear, you were right, I thought the crowds would have thinned out by now, I’m sorry but let’s just make the best of it, we can still enjoy the paintings, not as much as if we had the place to ourselves like the last time we were here, but let’s just go with it, we’re here and Cezanne is still Cezanne and I’m perfectly willing to beat off the crowds and look to my heart’s content, and you know painting is such a lift to the spirit, we may be able to transcend the hoi polloi, let’s try to rise above the fray, couldn’t we? I mean, we’re stoned enough, aren't we, to take things in stride?”

“You’re an optimist and I’m a pessimist but you’ll find out I’m right on this but that’s okay, we’ll get our three seconds to look at each painting, I just hope you’ll be content with that.” He strode with purpose into the first room where we were greeted by an immense Monet garden scene that jolted all the finer senses and renewed our faith.

The crowding was intense, he was right, I felt defeated after the first room and M. Cezanne did not get his due diligence but enough for me to want to leave this stuffy museum and fly off to France with my easel; to feel the warm sun, smell the pine trees, waver in the fractal light, walk dusty aromatic paths, dive into glistening waters…all of this I was murmuring in adulation to my husband before I was jostled out of the way by an over-sized backpack…my meandering indulgences trodden upon.

“I’m glad you’re so thrilled, it’s enough to send me to the nearest bar which by the way, it’s time for us to start making our way there if we’re going to keep our reservation, your Impressionist rapture will have to be curtailed. If we are lucky we won’t have to wait in line but I wouldn’t count on it. Don’t I always say Saturday is not the day to try to do anything in San Francisco? I trust you’ve finally figured that out. I just hope we can get a cab over there, the bus is not a straight shot.”

The brewpub was absolutely besieged, we waited to be seated an inordinate amount of time considering we had a reservation and then sat in the center of the room at a table too miniscule to accommodate people of our stature, we could not move our arms, there was no place for my handbag and we could not hear the waiter tell us the specials which we would have liked to hear about, or the various brews on tap that day. Nor could we expect to talk further of our outing. I could not tell him how the absolute was revealed in Manet’s gray or how the pink tone of Berthe Morisot’s summer afternoon summed up the essence of Paris in one stroke.

He could not tell me how Van Gogh’s exaggerated lines depict a crazed mania and are not at all elegant or artistic, how Gauguin left him cold or how he thought there was a little too much revealed about M. Degas in the splayed legs of those incessant dancers--what was it he found so enthralling, heh, heh, heh? Perhaps we would discuss this on the bus on the ride home but he never liked talking on the bus with so many listening, he preferred to remain anonymous in the presence of “assholes,” his term, not mine.

“I think this is the best beer I’ve ever had in my life,” I shouted. He looked at me without comprehension but guzzled three mugs of it before we even looked at the menu. We had another brew and decided to skip the lunch menu after the woman crammed in next to him toppled her glass of water and it landed on his leg. We were starting to become unbalanced from the packed assemblage.

It was a relief to be back outside and to see a bus approaching. “You know we will probably not even get on this bus. We’ll have to wait for the next one. I can see it is jammed to the rafters. It’s always like this on the weekend. I’d get us a cab but I’m out of cash.”
“The bus will be fine. I don’t know why you are so bothered by crowded buses. It’s better than looking for parking spots and worrying about tickets all the time. Besides, it's beautiful out. I don’t mind if we sit at this bus stop indefinitely…I smell the ocean and eucalyptus...” He gave me that bemused look that said, you’re just high.

The bus, as he rightly surmised, was completely packed with all the flotsam of humanity pressed against each other but he didn’t say a word; he gave up his seat to a Chinese woman carrying bags of groceries and conversation between us was nil as we grappled with the logistics of standing-room-only and the multitude of backpacks. I am never bothered by this--at these times I am at one with my fellow humans.

Halfway home, as a group of rambunctious teens piled in among us, pushing, shoving, ear-piercing laughter and mayhem, I looked over at my husband and there was a beatific look of acceptance on his face and I smiled--I knew he’d had a wonderful time too and we would have something to talk about all weekend.

“Let’s go somewhere and get an Irish coffee, you want to?” he asked. “Of course the Buena Vista will be mobbed. We’ll never get a seat at the bar but if you want to…we might as well, we haven’t had anything to eat…though I doubt we’ll get a table…”