Sunday, January 27, 2008
Saturday, January 26, 2008
Friday, January 25, 2008
Monday, January 21, 2008
Saturday, January 19, 2008
So here we are again: running off steam, sprinting up and down and up and down the steep grassy slope of the subterranean Tar Pits museum (the Page Museum, as nobody calls it) before our early-bird classes start; milling around the courtyard in front of the Ahmanson Building with other parents and kids sporting Avery label name tags; sitting on the floor of this gallery or that, listening to kids make their eye-opening observations about Hockneys and Picassos and Modiglianis; tromping down the secret stairs to the windowless art cave in the basement of the Art of the Americas Building (or in Ander's case, hiking over to the Boone Children's Gallery) where it smells like clay and paint and creation.
But then again, Zaza is not Ander (who was the kid raising his hand every few seconds saying things like "That angel is wearing a gardening hat," [it was actually a halo]). Zaza watches the other children, echoes what they say, flirts with the teacher, and is a bit more interested in washing her brushes in the big industrial sink than in actual painting. She likes the adventure of being at the museum before the crowds, loves holding my hand and riding escalators, and walking around the fountains, and tightrope-walking along the grout lines of the big tiles on the patio with her glittery shoes making tiny rainbows on her knee socks. And her yearning for our granola bar and juice box post-class picnics is a serious distraction during art cave time.
In Zaza's defense, our lovely young instructor has chosen two very abstract pieces to focus on over the past two sessions, and I think Zaza would respond to portraits or landscapes a bit more strongly.
Meanwhile, Zameandad and Ander have been studying furniture in their class.
Really, we need to swap kids for these classes. Zameandad gets a bit flustered by Ander's enthusiasm, and I get a bit irked by Zaza's lack thereof.
But still there is fresh-mown grass just waiting to be rolled on. And a photo booth in the gift shop of the Tar Pits Museum. And a man playing a banjo near the statue of the saber-toothed cat. It's cold, but the sky is blue, and cheeks are apple red. There are tar blobs to avoid and tourists to give directions to. There is eternal art in honey-floored rooms. And there are ephemeral warm little bodies curled in our laps, paint spatters on their momentarily small shoes.
It's early Saturday, and there's no rush at all.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Ander was nearly as popular as The Persistence of Memory as he squeezed through the crowds at the Dali show. When Zaza realized he was getting so much positive attention, she snatched the headband we had made her (and which she had refused to wear once we arrived at the museum) off of my head and wore it proudly for the rest of the visit.
Can I just say that I LOVELOVELOVE Ander in a top hat? If I could get him to wear one every day (and maybe a bowler hat now and then, with an occasional pork pie hat thrown in there), it would satisfy some sort of childhood Artful Dodger crush/fetish/thingy....
Check out JEK's glorious bonnet here.