I pulled on the chain for my hotel window’s curtain, a small part of me hoping to see sunlight filling my room as the shade lifted. Nothing is more perfect than a sunny, autumn day in New York City.
With each tug, my room didn’t brighten. The puddles that were forming in the parking lot three stories down confirmed the weatherman on Channel 2 was accurate in the previous night’s forecast.
Rain.
Rain is not the end of the world. In fact, I kind of enjoy it. The water gives life to the plants, the animals, the forgotten. It washes away soot and smog and carries it to the sewer grates. It promises something new.
As often as I travel, of course I come prepared for rain; the word prepared meaning, “I know there is a small shop in the train station that sells umbrellas for $3, so if it rains, I’ll be okay.” Off to the shop I went. $3 umbrella purchased. Train boarded.
Forty five minutes later as I walk up the stairs from Penn Station to the streets of Manhattan, I open my new-found friend, the umbrella. What occurred in front of me was almost magical, the unnatural becoming natural. As my umbrella popped open to shield me from the pelting rain, so did umbrellas from the hundreds of people around me as they marched out of the undergrounds and into the street.
$3 umbrellas are black, but true New Yorkers carry umbrellas with style. Reds, yellows, green with white stripes, polka dots, pinks…one by one the umbrellas arched up and bloomed like flowers after a spring rain, each one taking a different shape, brightness, and place on the vertical landscape.
Maybe walking through this plastic garden in the rain wouldn’t be so bad after all.
One mile later, I found myself in front of a hotel where a friend of mine had just given a presentation. This friend is not only a friend, but a confidant, a mentor, and a soothsayer. I had no idea what plans he had for us, but we slid into a cab with our wet umbrellas and backpacks and he asked the cab driver to take us to the Museum of Modern Art.
He asked me if that was okay.
That is like asking me if eating a chocolate lava cake for dinner is okay.
(The correct answer is yes, just in case you were unaware of my deep appreciation for chocolate, and art for that matter).
We arrived, and my friend flashed his membership cards in the right places as we climbed the stairs. This was my first trip to the MOMA, and I had no idea what was even being exhibited. He grew up in a family surrounded by fine art, so his knowledge of each painter, each context, and how they came into being (or passing for that matter) is rich and vast. We wandered through several of the rooms as he crafted a story weaving through Seurat to van Gogh, from Matisse to Mondrian and Magritte.
What was the story of each painter? How was their art received in their time, and now?
But beneath the art history lesson, he had a subtle and necessary agenda.
How are these paintings and these similar to my own journey?
Occasionally, we’d sit in a room, and whatever collection we had just passed he transformed into something tangible and relevant to the very steps I’m taking right now. What does van Gogh have to do with my writer’s block? A lot, actually. And what about rejection and being confident with my work (and myself) can I learn from a formerly mocked work of Matisse? More than I can share here.
I’m no stranger to art — I studied it quite thoroughly growing up. As well known as Starry Night is, it has always been one of my favorites. Even my “I-don’t-want-to-be-trendy” point of view can’t escape it. It moved me deeply in 2005 when I was in a discouraging place. And to see it, finally, up close and personal, was a breathtaking moment. Tears formed in my eyes as we stood before a handful of more recognizable pieces of his work.
These paintings are part of Vincent van Gogh.
He painted these pieces.
He touched them.
He crafted them.
He created them.
Something in his heart made him paint.
And even as my friend drew similarities between life and van Gogh, I couldn’t help but realize the profound effect seeing the actual paintings was having on me. As true as the words my friend was speaking were, the fact he was saying them as I stared at these paintings caused me to wonder…
“What – and maybe more importantly how – am I painting?”
I write words and they are sometimes put in books. Sometimes they are digitally transferred onto my computer screen, and your computer screen. Are these words as purely conceived in the same way each layer of Starry Night was painted?
Will someone read them one day and think of the soul of the girl behind them and be amazed? In tears?
Please let me clarify: It’s not because I believe anyone should be amazed in me, as a person. I am just flesh and blood and spirit and mistakes and hope and a bad driver. And I’m fairly sure van Gogh didn’t have any “what will people think?” thoughts running through his mind as he painted, either.
However, I do believe there is a purity and honesty in each of us that can be released when we set aside our expectations, our fears, and our desire to please others and simply paint whatever that unspeakable and great thing that’s inside of us. The world will take notice. Not of us, but of the great Starry Night in us that will transcend them and inspire them into believing the truth about the goodness that is inside of them as well.
“I often think that the night is more alive and more richly colored than the day.” -Vincent Van Gogh
With this story, I only ask you to remember this: even in the darkest nights and the rainiest of days, moments of light and color mysteriously, majestically, and sometimes whimsically (like a rainbow of flowers disguised as umbrellas) shine through. Paint that truth.
