Museums

My mother, not so easily impressed, pointed at a sculture of Pandora and said, “So she must be holding a box of soap and is about to bathe.” 

It was quite a busy day at the Getty. We arrived around 11:30AM and at 12:30PM joined a forty-five minute garden tour led by an enthusiastic woman named Debbie who spoke much more and more loudly than the average docent, but who was quite good, and kept her whole group of about twenty people whose ages ranged from 12 – 77 enrapt at what she had to say. I have now forgotten the names of most of the plants and trees she pointed out, but will forever remember the sight and smell of a low, long leaved shrub called “society garlic.” 

The day was sparkling clear with just the faintest layer of smog hanging over Downtown, and everywhere we looked it was just miles and miles of Los Angeles in all its spread out splendor. There! West Hollywood and UCLA; there! that tall cluster, Downtown LA, and over there, Santa Monica, sitting before the deep crystal blue of the Pacific and of course the long undulating hump of Catalina Island. And before all that there were the Getty’s own beautiful gardens. The older women walked, more often in silence than chattering, as I thought they would, with their heads either bent low or looking up, hands held lightly behind their backs. They wondered about the various plants and the stones and the logistics of construction. 

“How did they get all these heavy stones up here?” my mother asked over and over again. 

“Machines,” I said. 

An hour or so later she asked again and I wondered if she had forgotten that the center was built in the early 90’s and that it was not one of those eerie mysteries such as Stonehenge or Easter Island, but I had to admit the building itself had an ageless quality about it. My grandmother busied herself photographing everything that caught her eye, from the buildings to the tiniest succulents that looked up at all who walked by, to indolent, confused poodles who sat sunning themselves on the pale pink tile stones. Young children squealed about, running up the wide flat steps, swinging from the handrails, and then rolling down the wide expanse of lawns. We saw young couples on well-intentioned “let’s do something cultural” dates, young people dragged there by their parents and young college students back for winter break trying to place what they’d learned in their very first art history survey courses. We saw elderly couples wearing comfortable shoes, sweater vests and blazers who in their retirement rediscovered the leisure necessary to truly enjoy art and who made up the bulk of the guided tours. From them I made a mental note to enjoy my old age. We heard German, French, Italian, Korean, and of course Chinese being spoken around every bend, and marveled at various sculptures and the shape of Robert Irwin’s Zen. 

After the garden we went to see the art, though we skipped the current exhibition of Renaissance art. Not my favorite. I took them straight past the most crowded room where Van Gogh’s Irises were being photographed into oblivion and into a darker room in the corner, where light seemed almost unwelcome. There, we saw Degas’ “The Star,” and Lautrec’s “The Model Resting.” 

                

Both paintings gave me something to think about. I love the first but was drawn like a magnet to the latter, for reasons I can’t quite place. 

We left at an hour or so before sundown. Emerging from the West Pavilion we were met with the following view. 

 Taking the tram back down to the parking structure my mother, aunt and grandmother looked tired from walking and squinting at both the sun and the tiny details of a hundred paintings, but they were happy.