Compass

When I stumbled upon you, I literally stumbled; Through the rain, zig zagging between streets and cars, I entered the place where you are kept, musee l’orangerie, hot and sweaty.

I scanned the lobby for an entrance, something so simple but nevertheless something I struggle to find on the daily (maybe because of the language barrier, maybe I can’t read, maybe a little of both). The space between the kiosks brought my eyes to a young man wearing glasses and a smile. I decided to confidently skip the lines, flash my school ID card that stats my art major in France, and see if that was the norm. Fortunately, it was. I saw two others do the same thing as I walked up.

Damp jacket in hand I rounded the corner and was immediately absorbed into you; Your oval-egg like frame made it easy to disappear into you. I didn’t know you well on paper, but that meant nothing to you in this moment.

I sat down on the slightly off white bench in the center of the room and looked up to the ceiling. Light was seamlessly streaming in and there wasn’t a cloud in sight. Your presentation couldn’t be more spot on. I stayed perched there for the better part of five minutes before I decided I needed a favorite segment to befriend. I chose the northern wall of the first room. Why? Well, that’s the special thing about art. It doesn’t require a verbal description to explain its unique meaning or justify its importance. Though one can put some words to these feelings, they are never needed to cast meaning.

I stood a bit closer to you and found myself literally asking you, “What is that you say?” as I stared into your layered strokes, trying to pin point the acute awareness of your presence; it was an experience I have never had in the art world before.

I pocketed that feeling and continued enjoying you before eventually my stomach demanded I grab a bite to eat.

That afternoon, over a couple of crepes, a friend shared more of your story with me.

And then again, my host mom informed me about your symbolism of peace following the Armistice of WWI.

I returned to you once again that very same day.

I didn’t know your architect, for your overall display makes him both an artist and architect, suffered from cataracts. I didn’t know that his ocular vision was deteriorating, while his artistic vision was flourishing. I didn’t know that others criticized you, saying you were a product of blurred vision, not impressionism at its finest. I didn’t know that you were created from vulnerability and passion, for peace and full envelopment.

I knew none of this before our first meet.

Even still our connection was anything but fuzzy.

Oscar-Claude Monet chose what he saw and he saw you, I believe first in his heart, which is why you can be felt without words.

I like to think you were painted completely blind, blind to standards and to war and to suffering, giving you a different kind of soul.

I love that I live in Paris, that I am a designated ‘art major,’ and that I can visit you twice in one day.

Monet once spoke of you saying, “People discuss my art and pretend to understand as if it were necessary to understand, when it’s simply necessary to love.”

I love you, lilies!

Your wanna-be art student,

Riley Makenna