Tag Archives: Museums

I’ve been to Munich so many times that I’ve started to take the city for granted. I’ve somehow convinced myself that I’ve seen all there is to see in the city. This is patently untrue.

Seen it.

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Entire districts of have completely escaped my notice. I’ve a list of museums I’ve yet to visit. Hell, there are still things to see in the parts of the city that I know well.

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If this posts seems anachronistic, there’s good reason: it is. Rand and I are on the road for a while, so I’ve been scouring my Flickr stream  and the Drafts folder of my blog for old photos and stories I haven’t yet shared with you. This is a post I never got around to finishing from our Milwaukee trip in October, 2012.

 

The Milwaukee Art Museum is gorgeous. The architecture is so lovely, it’s hard to remember much else about it. I can scarcely recall a single exhibit we saw there. I couldn’t name one piece in the permanent collection. Even the lunch we had at the cafe is hazy in my mind. But the museum stands out in my memory, tall and bright like the building itself.

 

I love my hometown of Seattle dearly, but I can readily admit: our art museum does not hold a candle to this one. It looks vaguely nautical, slightly organic, yet fully modern. Like the skeleton of some exquisite alien.

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Remember how I said, like, just last week that even though I wasn’t a religious person, I could easily get behind the beliefs of those who are religious? Let’s keep that in mind, and remember that I am sometimes open-minded and loving, and accepting of the beliefs of others.

This, however, is not one of those times.

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If there was anything I could tell my younger self (besides to maybe consider getting an MRI on your head sometime before the age of 30), it would be this: don’t fall for artistic types.

I would finally learned my lesson when I was 20 or so. No more musicians, no more painters. Even graphic designers and guys who played guitar on weekends were on notice. (more…)

A simulation of an arm amputation at the Mutter Museum.

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I have a persistent and haunting memory from my childhood.

I must have been 8 or 9 years old, and I was at the county fair in Florida. County fairs in the south are a big deal: they’re fun but also sort of creepy and disturbing. The structures are temporary, there’s extension cords everywhere, and you feel like the entire place could go up in flames or collapse. I wonder if that’s part of the appeal – that you might die at any moment.

So you eat lots of funnel cake and try to live in the now.

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It’s Wednesday, and I find that I’m still recovering from a weekend full of Bacchanalia spent up in Canada. There was so much … excess. I made so many bad decisions (most of them nutritional, though a few were sartorial) that at one point I turned to Rand and said, “This feels like college.”

And as I reflect, with no small matter of cringing, upon my mistakes from not only this weekend but also from the late 90s (oh, god, my hair), I realize now might be the perfect time to tell you about my visit to the Louvre.

Because as far as museums go, that place is a fucking frat party.

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My husband sees beauty where others do not, and for that, I’m grateful.

The d’Orsay often plays second fiddle to the Louvre. And it shouldn’t.

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When something is aesthetically pleasing but too obvious, too easily attained, he tends to ignore it. While the world touts some new supermodel or starlet as the new standard of sexiness and perfection, my husband quietly notes that he really likes Maggie Gyllenhaal, and confesses to having had a thing for Helen Hunt.

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There is no photography allowed inside the upper galleries of le musée de l’Orangerie.

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