Sinister: this is the definition of my life

[Kirsten Kenyon]

  i went down to the art museum for history class today.  one thing 
i'd been enjoying about not being an art major was that i no longer 
had to write exhaustive essays about paintings i didn't even like.  
unfortunately, my university encourages students to become "well-
rounded individuals," and while i might be rounded off by a nice 
botany study or a chemistry experiment, it seems that the history 
professor feels we could all do with a nice hearty dose of modern 
art.  i have to write a paper about world war-era art in a historical 
context, which might not be as difficult as i'd imagined.  i did seem 
to have an advantage, at least directionally, over most of my 
classmates, who were either wandering around the medieval galleries 
or gaping at the warhols, all quite nice but irrelevant to the 
assignment at hand.  after taking a few pages of notes, i used my 
finely-honed art museum navigation skills to help a couple find the 
german expressionists, then took an extracurricular excursion to 
american neo-expressionism and twentieth century design.  
  i wandered through room after room of sex and politics and ultra-
mod outboard motors, following a booming echo to a bill viola piece:  
a neatly made double bed, dark under a giant screen flashing what 
looked like an open-heart surgery gone terribly wrong.  it didn't do 
much for me, so i strolled over to examine a nice painting of what 
happens when you spill paint.
  two elderly women, the sorts who hold hands out of necessity rather 
than affection, were shuffling along, following the rhythmic 
heartbeat to the dark little room.  i watched out the corner of my 
eye as the slightly sturdier of the two slowly stretched her neck, 
peering timidly around the partition to see what was making that 
terrible noise...
  "good god, shirley!"  her head retracted with surprising speed, 
like the hand of a child who has touched a hot stove.  "don't even 
peek at that!"
  but surely shirley had to have a look.  she stepped into the 
doorway, gazing with a sort of fixed admiration at the great gory 
spectacle pulsing overhead.  i stared at the two of them there, the 
one centered firmly before the door, the other tugging at her hand, 
shaking her powdery head, powder flying everywhere, hovering like a 
swarm of minute lavender-scented insects in the crystal blue sunlight 
reflecting off the lake.  shirley's lips were parted slightly, so 
that she looked as if she might laugh, cry, or croak at any moment.  
the other just kept tugging, whining, surely you'd rather go see the 
stained glass now, shirley.  surely this isn't art.  shirley.  i 
giggled and tried to see if there was a nice cursive "L" on her 
sweater (this is milwaukee, after all) but i couldn't tell.
  it was another beautiful day, so i skipped out a bit early and went 
down to the marina, carefully pressing down my skirt in the cool lake 
breeze and stepping over goose cigars.  ahem.
  these early spring days are the best days that happen until early 
autumn, because people are so appreciative.  they smile, flying their 
kites, pushing their shopping carts, sitting on their porches smoking 
cheap cigars and sipping beer out of dewy silver cans.  it's like 
someone stood up at town hall and said "winter's over, let's have a 
picnic" and everyone agreed.  a whistling garbage collector, a 
geriatric stone-skipping contest, a laughing russian girl whose pen 
won't write, muddy water blues in a room that's no longer the color 
of split-pea soup, but of comical baby poop or a charmingly hideous 
spring sweater.  you crack open a window, spark up a lucky strike, 
and suddenly feel that things are okay.

  kirsten

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