Yesterday, I turned 34. Ok, so 34 does not feel any differently than 33, although it does feel eons away from 21. My new obsession with Bloody Mary’s (sans Worcestershire since that contains some sort of fish thing) ensures I get my veggies while being naughty.

I promised my better half a trip to Chicago to visit his family. It has been a while. My only requisite? I needed time to visit some friends. No just actual people, but works of art that I have followed, and have followed me through  my aesthetic development.

I talk to myself. Don’t we all? Hello Georges, I am almost there, I whispered to myself as I walked briskly down Michigan Avenue, venti Americano with soy milk topper, 2 Splendas and a hint of cinnamon on hand on my way to the Art Institute of Chicago. Nothing seemed to have changed. Except me. I was older, and my skin felt particularly dry after settling in nicely into Houston humidity. As i faced the massive building in Beaux-Arts style (neoclassical style taught in Paris), I fixed my hair, put on chap-stick , straighten my eyebrows, and on I went. We all want to look good to visit old friends don’t we?

I paid my fee and asked the ticket taker lady if the Seurat was still up the stairs pass the first hall? She smiled and nodded. I sped up the stairs with the agility of my skinny days, walked intently into the room and ignored the fabulous Caillebotte and apologized. I hope I didn’t hurt your feelings “La Place de l'Europe, temps de pluie” but I am first here to see “Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte”, I rounded the corner to find a hallway framing the word perfectly.

I stopped dead on my tracks as if I just slammed on the breaks to avoid plunging into an 18-wheeler. i remember it being big. This big? THIS BIG! I smiled. i think some old lady gave me a weird look and I immaturely stuck out my tongue at her with a quirky smile. Did I just do that? I guess 34 isn’t directly proportional to maturity.

I approached it carefully and smiled warmly. I have to admit I was a little emotional which is rather strange since truly this is an inanimate object right? Wrong. It isn’t. It tells a story of the history of art, of technique, of the people of Paris and of the people in the picture. Also, it told the story of me, and it did that only to myself. Thankfully.

These are my three encounters and conversations with Seurat over a period of 16 years:

1. 1.I first met Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte when I was in high school. I had visited Chicago for music business and like a good high school dork, I felt the need to do touristy things. Number one the list, Museums. I knew somewhat about art since my lovely mother is an artist and had taken us to many museums growing up. I knew the word impressionism and had a strong affinity for music of that period: Ravel and Debussy had brutal flute works I was trying to master (which you never do). I had not seen or heard of the Seurat, but I remember feeling like it was quite an important work. It was large so the artist must have thought he had something to say, the curator had placed it strategically in the middle of a wall of an important and visible room (meaning it had to be a prized possession, AND, it had a stop on the audio tour. All three signs that I must pay attention. Looking at the “dots” of paint I thought who in the world would have such patience to mix colors like this? My translation? Perception is always a combination of other factors. Georges, you are rather weird you know. Can you just paint pretty? Your people are just flat.
   

2. 2.During my undergrad days at the Eastman School of Music, Katie Winchell (now Frisco) and her lovely parents Dick and Pam hosted us for many Thanksgivings. After having taking a couple of art history and survey classes with a very influential figure in my artistic development (other than my primary flute teachers and mother) was Lucy Durkin (she is my Facebook friend now!). We learned about impressionism, pointillism, color theory, and more importantly, historical context. These were instrumental in learning how to view and converse with Seurat. Seurat used color to create harmony and emotion like a musician uses counterpoint and variation. I was obsessed with looking at the work up close, figuring out the various different elements of color that came together to create the final affect. Oh Georges, I get you. Well, I think I do. You are so done with what others are doing and are using scientific schemes to explore emotion by color combinations and the direction of your “dots.” I have to say, that’s pretty handy.
   

3. 3.I returned to view the work this week as part of my pilgrimage to Chicago. Having had a long break from it, my interest went beyond the technique and painting and more of a realization that Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte had been here all this time while I was growing up. It has been 16 years since we first met, and wonder how many times I will get to see you, and under what conditions. How will I change? Will you travel? I am noting this occasion as an anchor and my next trip to Chicago, I will assess where I am in life, and where I was last time I dialogued with Georges. I stood and I stared at George for what seemed an eternity. Looking at the figures, making up stories, naming one of the dogs Herman,  and loving the smokiness of the tree leaves. Georges, amazing that through 16 years I have learned of you, about you, through you and about me. I wonder if you had any idea while you were making your trials of Sunday Afternoon on the Island of La Grande Jatte that your 10 foot massive statement would hang here, in a special city with meaning for me, and that my encounters with you would make me reflect on my growth?
   

As I finish humoring myself with this story, I wonder if others have similar anchors: reminders of our history, growth and development, and perhaps foreshadowing our future.