Devonne Brown

It wasn’t the wonders on the museum wall that captured my attention, although there were plenty to see. I felt a pang of shame about it too. I was properly enthralled and humbled by Picasso’s blue period, Monet’s waters, and VanGogh’s wonder year. I knew sacred ground when I was on it. The rarified air of the swirling wonky white way of the Guggenheim took my breath away just like it was supposed to do, but that’s not what did it for me.

That glorious white walk must be what the stairway to heaven looked like. Greta Garbo, Hedy Lamar, and Vivien Leigh in full makeup, one eyebrow up, of course, and white feathered gowns of silk and satin with matching stilettos. Greta blew smoke rings from a rhinestone studded cigarette holder, and all three drank from crystal martini glasses. They discussed, in depth, the master’s works of art. Their eyes were big and bold with intelligent conversation. I overheard a bit and was enchanted as well as impressed. If I were as sophisticated… 

Fred Astiare and Bojangles Robinson complete with canes and top hats, danced a fancy promenade: first, up, two, three: then down six, seven, eight, turn on four…hold. Spin the hat. Razzle, dazzle. Silver shoes that glistened, hear that tap? See those smiles? One take. Professionalism at its finest.

Then there were the warriors. Unearthed in fields all over the globe, intact, simultaneously, like magic. A terracotta lady army of every race in rows of three on the endless crooked master spiral. The women who were left when their men didn’t come home from the war, the mines, the day, or the night. Tears of choices they thought were right marked their faces with dusty babies in their arms, some suckling at a breast, some women suckling two. The exhibit had to be cut off at the bottom of the swirling staircase.

Point made.