Museums make me happy.
Ever since I was a little girl growing up within one square mile of at least ten of them — including such supreme abodes of art as the Metropolitan, Guggenheim and Whitney — I reveled in wandering through galleries exploding with Jackson Pollock’s canvases and calmed by Constantin Brancusi’s bronzes.
Initially instilled by my parents, my appreciation for art increased exponentially under the tutelage of Mr. Yates, my beloved high school art history teacher, whose engaging wit made class more enjoyable than the vodka tonics my girlfriends and I would sip at The Coffee Shop after absconding from school on the number 1 train. (Ah, the pre-Giuliani days!)
My interest flourished over the ensuing years. I interned at a SoHo gallery, penned a college paper on the parallels between Keith Haring and Navajo sandpaintings, and flew across the Atlantic to visit the Prado and the Louvre.
Ever since I moved to Southern California, however, my track record has wavered a bit. And no, it’s not because living out here breeds vapidity. It’s just that the weather seems to call out “hike in the mountains” more than it does “an afternoon inside windowless walls of art.”
In an effort to switch course, I decided that week #3’s activity should re-charge my artistic affinities.
So which one would it be? The Hammer? The Craft and Folk Art Museum? Or maybe the Pacific Asia Museum? Hmmm…
But then I looked at the calendar — Mother’s Day. And it comes only once a year.
Knowing that my New York City-dwelling mom was steeped in self-pity over the fact that her two kids live thousands of miles away in Los Angeles and Denver, I called up my scheme-loving dad to concoct an early mother’s day surprise.
So, too, did my week #3 plan to visit a museum — albeit across the continent from Los Angeles.
Stay tuned for Part 2, our Mother’s Day outing up the Hudson River to DIA: Beacon…