Yesterday was quite a day. My fridge and pantry are restocked. I've written checks for all the bills. I caught a wee scrap of a nap before my friend's birthday party. And found a new home for one of our three ice cream scoops. (She was ma'amfully digging the ice cream out with a serving spoon.)
I made no music yesterday. No art, either. Didn't pick up my knitting except to move it. But my spirit feasted, regardless. I had a wonderful time at the art exhibition last night. I have tried, really tried, to love impressionism. But my mind and heart are pulled toward realism. The Dutch masters. The Hudson River school. Eakins' portraits. Greg Olsen. Simon Dewey. Liz Lemon Swindle. Paul Mann. C.C.A. Christensen. As opposed to Monet, most of Van Gogh, and Minerva Teichert.
And surrealism. Dali. "Starry Night". M.C. Escher. Mickey Mouse. Melted clocks. Singing crickets. Peter Max.
The impressionists are gifted. I appreciate what they were trying to do, and I am grateful for the beauty they shared. But it's not mathy enough to satisfy me. And not vivid enough. I spent so many years trying to be a pastel person, and I'm just not. If I could afford designer clothing, I would want Oscar De La Renta ballgowns in Betsey Johnson colors.
So last night was blissful. Peter Max is not afraid of color. Or of repeating himself. Many variations on several themes. His new Marilyn portraits are just lovely, as is his portrait of Taylor Swift. The one which moved me to tears was his portrait for the ten year anniversary of 9/11. We see the Statue of Liberty from the back. She is looking across the water at the towers. And golden light is pouring over the city from her torch.
I gathered up my courage and went over to speak with him. I thanked him for brightening my life during a difficult time. He said I was sweet. (Proving that you really can fool some of the people, some of the time.) We talked for maybe five minutes. He asked if I had any of his art. I told him no, that I've been a single mom for much of my life. He reached for a post-it pad and made me a sketch and signed it for me.
I'm framing it.
I never know what's going to come out of my mouth. I told him I would see him in Heaven. He corrected me, gently and firmly.
"No, I will see you again, here."
"Yes, but when I see you again in Heaven, I will be an artist, too."
I think I know a little how Moses felt on Sinai, or Peter on the Mount of Transfiguration.
And then I came home and called my sister, who was really excited to hear that I've started to draw. And my friend in Oklahoma, who is an artist. Both of them got it.
I am just flat overwhelmed with the love and grace and mercy that is pouring down on me from Heaven. I will probably be a wreck in sacrament meeting this afternoon, and people will think I am grieving (or nuts, but I'm used to that).