A Moment in a Museum

I'm in Washington, DC for the week and I am so ridiculously happy. I love this place. My husband and I lived here for a couple years early in our marriage and we love to dream about coming back. So anytime we get a chance to visit, we are are like two kids in Disneyworld. Disneyworld, except with museums instead of rides and monuments instead of people dressed up as Disney characters.

I spent today exhausting myself at the National Portrait Gallery. Every time I visit, they have new temporary exhibits, so every time I come back it's a new experience. Today, I was captivated by one temporary exhibit featuring the photography of Yousuf Karsh. (I thought of trying to write a fancy description of Karsh and his work, but then felt completely inadequate. So if you're truly interested...Google it.) One particular photograph mesmerized me: an image of Aaron Copland. Copland was an important American composer who fascinated me from an early age. I remember hearing one of his pieces, Cat and Mouse, at a piano competition and then begging my piano teacher to let me play it. I remember being moved as I heard my professor give a lecture on his life while I was in grad school. And then, here I was with this photograph in front of me. Copland seated at a grand piano with one of his manuscripts and his eyes staring at piercing the camera.

I felt like he was looking directly at me. It was as though this photograph was a bridge between times and I was given the opportunity to spend a moment with Copland himself. Standing in front of his picture, I was transfixed. I didn't want to leave that spot. I fell in love with that portrait. I wanted to take a picture of it on my phone, but signs clearly indicated that no photos are allowed for this exhibit (and they had plenty of guards around to make sure no rules would be broken). So I stood there, staring. I soon became very aware of the crowds of people around me, squeezing in to see this picture of a man they probably knew nothing about. My hypersensitivity won out and I sadly walked away.

The gift shop was just steps away, so I went in with hopes of finding a postcard with an image of my new favorite piece of art. Nothing. I so wanted to be able to look at that picture again and again, whenever and wherever I want. But some things are meant for just a moment.

I returned to that spot three times, trying desperately to ingrain the image into my mind. But even now, mere hours later, I find that beautiful image slipping away. And I will probably never be able to see it again. And even if I do, I will never be able to relive the experience of seeing that work for the first time. That moment is gone forever. 

I have many moments I wish could never end. These are the special moments that make me want to keep living. They are beautiful, precious, inspiring. And they get overshadowed by a myriad of moments that are hard, painful, or mundane.

I am a pianist. It's not a hobby. It's my profession passion. I love my work art. I also have lupus. There are days when it is physically impossible to practice. There are other days when I come home from a day of rehearsing in tears from the pain and exhaustion. I go into every performance with the knowledge that it could be my last. This is a hard way to live. But I love it. I love it because I love all the moments. I don't let them slip away unnoticed. I let them mean something. I live them - truly live them. All of them.