I found myself in the de Young Fine Arts Museum in Golden Gate Park a few weeks ago. This was my first visit to an art gallery in years, and without children. Well, without my children. I was with my sister and her two daughters, ages 6 and 3, and let me say that their museum etiquette was impressive. There is no way I’d take my own kids through a blown glass exhibit. I’m not sure I would even trust my husband through that room, who actually leaned up against Bernini Sculpture in Rome. My sister is moving from San Francisco this week, after living there for 9 interrupted years, so my last visit was more nostalgic than usual, and wandering around fine art with her prompted an especially poignant memory for me. Here is a little background.
San Francisco, upon my first visit as an adult, did not impress me. It was a Saturday in the Fall of 2001; my husband of 3 months and I had recently moved to San Jose, 45 miles south of “the City.” We decided to explore and with a trusty, super sized, fold-out map, we found ourselves in a part of down town where parking was less than $20 an hour. As Utah natives we were used to abundant and cheap parking. We spent the day walking around tourist traps like Fisherman’s Wharf, Pier 39 and China Town. I was fresh from several European adventures and East Coast trips; I unfairly compared my few hours in these parts of San Francisco to cities such as: Florence, London, Washington D.C. or Boston.
Thankfully I didn’t give up on San Francisco so easily. A few months later we discovered Golden Gate Park. The asymmetrical cypress trees and rugged landscape were so unlike the groomed parks of London that I loved, but my heart opened to them. In 2003 my sister and her husband moved to the City, near the park and with a view of the Golden Gate Bridge (from the bathroom–on a rare, fogless day). Our trips north became much more frequent and I will always treasure our year close to each other; now both adults, our somewhat distant and rocky childhood relationship melted away and we became dear friends. In 2004 we left the Bay Area for new adventures but I have made several journeys back there during the past decade.
A Chagall exhibit came to the San Francisco museum of modern art during the fall of 2003. I am a huge Chagall fan. I love his style, the whimsy, literary subjects and the colors in his works–especially those blues. Previous to this exhibit the only Chagall work I had seen was the ceiling of the Paris Opera House that he painted. Breathtaking.
Steve, my husband, opted out of the museum and took a bike ride instead, but my sister and my brother-in-law indulged me (and it turned out a really good thing I wasn’t alone). I was 16 weeks pregnant and unaware of my hypoglycemia. I have never before or since been to such a crowded exhibit–guess I’m not the only Chagall fan! We had moved slowly through a few rooms when the air became incredibly thin; I saw my sister about 15 feet away and felt an urgency to reach her. There was absolutely no where to sit! Here is where my husband would have come in handy; he has absolutely no problem sitting on the floor of a museum, promise. I took a few steps towards my sister then everything went black.
The next thing I knew I was lying on the museum floor looking up at a sea of faces and hearing my sister saying, “That’s my sister, She’s pregnant!” As if I needed any more attention, she wheeled me out of there in a wheel chair and we made our way to the cafe for a sugar boost and some fresher air. After I recovered we wandered around the museum for awhile, but I’m pretty sure we skipped the rest of Chagall. The only other thing I remember about that day was sitting on the steps of the museum and a docent asking me to leave (When I was at the de Young last month I was also scolded for being less than 12 inches from a Picasso. Do they have rulers in their eyes?). So I sort of feel like my Chagall experience was cut short but I bought some prints and I have a good story to tell. I can literally claim that Chagall took my breath away. I’m glad my sister was there to rescue me. I’ve been to a few aquariums with her–we sort of have each other’s backs like that.
I mourn deeply this week for my sister as she leaves San Francisco. She has worked in the woods and in the bay. She has grown a family of two to a family of five. I’m pretty sure she has run and biked nearly every road and trail of that magnificent area. I mourn also for myself. Her home in the Sunset was a haven for me. I would look out her window and see the ocean. I would Stand on her porch and feel it’s mist and breeze. In five minutes my feet could be in the sand or on the trails of Lands End and Golden Gate Park. I was constantly inspired by the Tai Chi, the art, the diversity and acceptance of the Sunset. And parking on Noriega Street was free.
An image of Chagall’s stained glass windows.
Chagall’s depiction of Bottom and Queen Titania from A Midsummer Night’s Dream. I picked up a small print of this at the gift shop after I recovered from my own drama while at the exhibit.
The ceiling of the Paris Opera House, painted by Marc Chagall. As with all great art, but even more so in this case, a small computer image can hardly do it justice. My memory of experiencing it briefly in person has faded significantly but I will always remember that I loved and treasured it!
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