I wonder, do you have a place you like to go when you need to restore yourself? A place that reminds you of who you are? A place that somehow makes so much sense, you never really believe it until you are standing there again? A place you can go to by yourself and worry that if you were to take someone else, it might destroy that relationship or it might destroy that place.

I took a field trip Saturday. I started the morning off with some coffee (because I knew that life makes so much more sense while I am doped on the caffeine). The lines of buildings seem so much cleaner. The reasons behind everything start revealing themselves.

I headed down to the Menil. I exited off onto Allen Pkwy and with Muse’s “Hysteria” blasting away and my windows down, I thought about how wonderful the lines of the street look making their way off into the distance in perfect curves.

I made my way to the East wing of the building. I’ve come to enjoy that side first, it has all the African and Northwest American Indian art. I wish I could say that I learned how to enjoy that stuff on my own. It was a class that I had dreaded taking that opened my eyes to it. I barely care what the artifacts were used for (but I am sure that over time I will care). I love looking at the clean lines that accentuate the forms. I can’t help but feel that these various people were much more honest than those from the pre-ren era. They weren’t try to imitate what they saw (and then seemingly fail miserably at it) like those flat painters, but it seems like they were showing the true form of spirits (or other supernatural beings). The lines on these artifacts are bold and powerful, holding in high regard the beauty of their function.

Seeing the Cycladic sculptures are like seeing the first of some old friends. Visiting the museum is like visiting old friends…a perspective one of my bosses laid upon…and I love looking at it like this…because really this is what it is like. They occupy special places inside of me and seeing that they are still there after all these years is a relief. They make no apologies for who they are. They don’t pretend to be someone they aren’t. Even if they have deficiencies…they don’t try to hide them. They capture a moment in time, they capture a thought, a feeling, a person. The figures are all white with simple shapes accentuating the human figure.

Moving over to the more modern art, I love feeling relaxed. I used to hate the guards…they would make me nervous… stop, stare and admire. I used to have a hard time understanding what I should be doing in front of a piece of art. Now, I simply let me mind run free…like when skipping tracks on an iTunes playlist optioned to random. Stopping and letting my eyes drench a piece, imagining the artist’s hands create, imaging my hands confirming it’s reality, wondering about the artist’s perceptions at various points in it’s creation. I’m lost from all the nonsense, found in things that make sense. I stop when my mind reacts, I move on when I start getting the urge to ask, “what the fuck was this asshole thinking?” I forget about the guards…or maybe they trusted me and let me experience in solitude.

I love seeing “old friends” and I like becoming familiar with new ones. I want to take the art with me, but I like the feeling of thinking I might see them again in several months…or in several decades.

I love the sound of my feet on the wood floors. I love hearing the floors creak under my weight. I start wondering if the guards ever get bored. I wonder why Magritte seems like he was trying to prove something. I wonder if I’m wrong because I think Picasso could have been something really special but it seems like he was lazy.

I walked outside and the day was splendid. The air cool and fresh, the sun shining, the yards green and the sound was quiet. I walked across the street to The Cy Twombly gallery.

It’s hard for me to understand why I love this place so much. I look and look, imagine and imagine. I listen and breathe. I smell the air and look up at the architecture. I wonder if it is ok to think that this place is like a miracle. I wish that I could fall asleep there, I wish that I could see it at night.

I like being there trying to understand why it means so much to me. Why these abstract and mostly child-like “atmospheres” feel like warm blankets during the winter.

I had a conversation while I was there. It was easy. I told the lady that I am afraid of walking around the gallery in a counter-clockwise manner, she pointed out how I miss some neat features of doing so. She told me how deliberate the color of the floors were picked out and how I should notice how the paintings reflect off of them. Blissfulness.

I walked back outside, studied the architecture some more and walked around the far side of the Menil building. I wondered what it would be like to live within walking distance.

I got back to my car and headed to my traditional after-the-art location: Soundwaves. It’s always funny being there after looking at art. I feel disoriented and worry about making a bad purchase. I don’t come in looking for anything in particular and with such a huge selection of albums, I worry about being there for hours on end. I’ve lucked out recently, buying the latest albums from artists I already admire. This weekend it was Iron and Wines, The Shepard’s Dog.

Yes, it is good…