As this first cup of coffee oozes into my stomach lining I will tell you a little tale of love and redemption, hope and loss.
I was in Washington for about a five day stretch for the inauguration of Barack Obama and I dipped into the National Gallery twice. Once on the Saturday before the inauguration. The second time was on the Wednesday after the big thing that went down in D.C. So there I was in the halls of light, the palace of forboding that is the art that was collected by the Mellons’, the Kress’, the Wideneners’ of the world. Here in all it’s gathered glory was the Renaissance of Italy, Northern Germany and France, and the Netherlands. Also there was that thing called American art that we shan’t touch today, only in future ages shall one look back to see the Elihu Vedders of America.
I stood transfixed by an Annunciation, my favorite piece of Christian imagery, from Florence circa 1500. The artificial light that streamed through its’ rear lit the panels so exactingly that it would be hard to be a Raphael and not take notice of such beauty all around and then to be molded by Pietro Perugino, ahh, what a world indeed. But these two pieces of stained glass held me in their arms for a just-so moment and then we parted ways. I courted some medals from Venice and Florence and the angel of God and Mary reflected on how ugly the curator is for the National Gallery, the one they see everyday.
P.S. It is a wonderful thing that our new president is being compared to such notable presidents as Lincoln and FDR.