A Day at the Museum, OR Ain’t dead yet

[rolanni]

So, I did well, today.

... I don't say -- or feel -- that very often, so maybe a repeat is in order.

I Did Well Today.

I was betrayed slightly by the internet, which had led me to believe that the Free Street Parking Lot was (1) convenient to the art museum, which it may have been in Portland terms, but I don't have that vernacular, and (2) easy to use. That? Was An Untruth. When you enter the garage (note: garage, not lot), you're given the choice of inserting a credit card (I was unprepared; credit card in back pocket) or taking a ticket. I took a ticket, which I have done many times before in my life, if not in this location, only -- this ticket says: TEXT TO PAY, and gives a phone number.

I freak. On the other hand, I was already in the damned garage, so I managed to back-burner the freak out, to be revisited after I had toured the museum.

The Conveniently Located Museum.

So, I used the axe murderer's elevator to get from the 5th level to Free Street, and queued up my phone so it could lead me to the museum.

Only, the phone had lost its mind, and wanted to send me in a nice circle, which even I knew better than, also, I kept assuring myself that my goal was "conveniently located."

I wandered for a bit, the phone sporadically sending me even crazier messages -- No, I did not want to go to the Boston Museum of Art -- and I was about to give up on the whole scary deal, when I saw, just ahead, two middle-aged couples having what sounded like an agreeable and normal conversation.  I approached, said "Excuse me," and asked if they knew where the art museum was. One of the men gave me very kind and concise instructions -- "You're good, really. Just keep on up the hill on this side, Don't cross the Big Street, and you literally can't miss it."

And he was right.

The Portland Museum of Art is a very nice little city museum, and a pleasant way to spend three-ish hours of a too-hot-even-at-the-beach day. My brain tried to engage me in dithering about the car, but I managed to concentrate on the art, and had a lovely time.

I even got to be That Patron.

I was watching a documentary done by a photographer who was discussing the reasons for altering a photograph.  In this case, he had taken a picture of autumn-red trees, then deepened the reds and limned the trees with gold, evoking Autumn, The Season on Fire.  And the reason he did this -- mind you, what he's saying is also running along the bottom of the screen, so I'm reading, because -- words! -- and he said that he had taken this artistic decision because he wanted to bring attention to the fact that woodlands in Maine are so often -- he said "razed" and the word on the screen was "raised" -- a classic case of two words that sound alike and mean the exact opposite of each other -- in order to create farms.  (This is an interesting mirror to something a forest ranger said to me, years ago, that the forests of Maine are a graveyard of farms; that you can walk twenty miles in, and literally trip over a stone wall.)

Back to the museum and the subtitles.

I explained the problem re "razed"/"raised" to floor security, who sent me down to the desk.  The person there had me write a note to the Curators, and attached my card to it.

I do hope they fix this. Otherwise, people who depend on the captions are going to have a very odd idea of where farms come from.

Ate lunch at the museum cafeteria, bought some cards, and left just as the entire graduating class of Wherever descended en masse.

Walked down Free Street, took the axe murderer's elevator to the 5th level, got in car, called the other number on the ticket and explained to the young man who answered where I was and that I was old and had no idea how to text money anywhere. He was very kind and patient, and it turned out that, if I showed my ticket to the scanner at the exit kiosk, it would let me pay with a credit card. Also, he reassured me, there was a panic button right on that kiosk, so if something went wrong, I should just push it to be reconnected to him, and he'd be pleased to help me out.

I didn't have to hit the panic button, and home I came, stopping for chocolate raspberry ice cream on the way.

One of the exhibits at the museum was called Precious, which talked about the difference between "fine" art and the common sort of everyday, and useful  art that people make -- marbles, jewelry, glassware, pottery. It's a topic of some interest to me, as I contemplate my lifetime collection of ... Things. I had cried for 20 minutes one day when I realized that nobody was gong to love that jar full of glass marbles I'd collected over 60 years, and they'd end up in a dumpster.

Anyhow, visitors to the Precious room are challenged to pick a piece of art from the exhibit that spoke to them and write a poem. I chose People Like Us and here is my poem:

People like us
hold small treasures
against large fears.