The Clark

We went to the Clark in Williamstown. They’ve created a kind of small miracle there, of indoor and outdoor spaces of equal splendor and delight. I don’t want to spoil it for you; you should just go.


My favorite painting is there, the one by Sargent of the woman in Tangiers standing over a beautiful silver senser with burning ambergris. I could stare at it forever.

They have an exhibit of Georgia O’Keefe’s sister, Ida’s, work. It’s interesting. But disappointing to read how poorly Georgia treated her sisters, who were both painters. Ego stuff.


We sat down at a table outside for lunch and just as we were getting up to leave we noticed a dime on the far corner. The spirits have been very busy in my life lately, but this move was particularly mischievous as both of were certain that no dime had been there when we sat down.

I love this world. And the other one, too.


The great thing about art museums and about taking a day away to walk slowly among great paintings, to sit in the sun and do nothing, to talk about life and death and love and fears and kids and parents and dreams and paintings and food and other things, too, is that it helps you to look at the world differently. It shifts your brain in good ways so that when you go home you might be inclined to crawl beneath a flower for a change, so you can see what the grass sees and what the bees see and how that flower sees the blue sky.

Good art and good days will do that.