One of the good things about working in Oakland is my proximity to the Carnegie Museum. I usually remember it when I'm feeling bombarded--and it has never failed to be a sanctuary, even on the toughest of days. When I feel disordered and disheveled and stretched to my limit, the museum provides a space for me to breathe in again. It is ordered and clean and quiet, both cozy and spacious.
On Friday, I wandered in for one of my lunch-break escapes. I sat on a leather couch in a purple gallery and read about James Abbott McNeill Whistler. I strolled through the blue-walled galleries that house their (familiar) permanent collection. I even ducked into the Natural History section and disappeared into the hall of minerals and gems.
Though I've been to the museum countless times, I always discover something new while I'm there. This time, I was surprised to find myself most attracted to abstract, black-white-and-greyscale paintings hanging in the more modern end of the permanent galleries. They felt expansive: free and open to interpretation.
|Detail from Castile (España) by Robert Motherwell, 1952|
|Detail from Siegfried by Franz Kline, 1958|
|Detail from Painting, by Antoni Tápies, 1958|