The Hall of Books
Today I walked isles lined with art literature. It’s been too long since I’ve set aside time to wonder. I miss art. I passed a Japanese couple speaking animatedly about a painting they’d found in a large Michelangelo book that sat protected in an end-cap. She would point and brush her finger across the page. His slow nod, brows nit in response. Minutes pass and I’m warmed by the consideration, the patience it takes to see a piece of art.
They moved on, allowing me to focus on the shelf again. I grabbed Photobooth by Babbette Ines and upon opening to the middle of the book, my eyes began to sting with tears. Each page, covered by small portraits of so many who have already gone.
It was too much. I placed the book back on the shelf.
In the next isle I searched the theory section and move into Artists A-Z where I stand next to two women. After some time, watching them pick up books and comment on their various sizes, I realized that they aren’t looking at the art at all but the bare blue canvas covers. I find myself slightly disgusted as they continue to unshelve books, strip them of their sleeves, murmur in disagreement and continue on.
I leave with Women Before 10 AM by Veronique Vial.