I spent a lifetime ignoring art until I couldn’t. DaVinci’s masterpiece did nothing for me. The work of lesser known, Glenna Goodacre, stopped me in my tracks. A seemingly misguided turn led to my art epiphany.
This story began in 2012. Our European honeymoon. Stockholm, London, Paris and Rome. So many things to see, yet so little time. My only fear—spending too much time in museums. Sure, I like museums like the Pro Football Hall of Fame in Canton, the Hockey Hall of Fame in Toronto and The Sixth Floor Museum in Dallas. Museums whose name doesn’t include the word “art” can be lots of fun.
Did I mention, honeymoon? I read somewhere that it’s important to think of your wife’s interests too. Thought I’d give that a try.
The Louvre in Paris. A museum filled with paintings and sculptures. Seemed as big as the Pentagon. Never-ending hallways. Flights of stairs ascending to the clouds. Crowds. No ice cream or hot dogs.
Hand-in-hand with my wife—or, if her memory better serves, perhaps ten feet in front of her, a la the stuffed rabbit setting the pace for a dozen greyhounds at the track. Feigned interest at many pieces of art. Impressed by a few others such as the “Sleeping Hermaphroditus.”
How did they create that out of marble?
The map on the wall said turn right, then left, then right, then she’ll be on the right.
The hallway grew more crowded.
I’ve seen this trait of human behavior before. Driving through empty roads in Yellowstone then suddenly encountering double-parked cars. Somebody saw something. Everyone jostling for position to see a herd of bison or gigantic grizzly bear.
She was over to the right. Waited my turn to get close. Perhaps nudged a few people aside. Eventually, it was just me and her—my wife behind me. Leonardo DaVinci’s masterpiece.
The 500-year-old painting of Lisa Gherardini.
Better known as Mona Lisa.
I waited for goose bumps. And waited. Still waiting.
Nothing.
I felt shame. Millions would be elated if they could be in my shoes. My admission ticket should have been given away. I wasn’t worthy of the experience.
But can we get a croissant somewhere in here?
I’ve only bought one piece of “art” in my life. Not a da Vinci classic—a 1934, Morris Kantor classic named “Baseball at Night.” I love it. I saw the original at the Smithsonian American Art Museum then ordered a print.
Scoreboard: Tom has been in two art museums.
The painting depicts a scene I’d love to have experienced. Old school, neighborhood ballpark. Radio station broadcasting to the locals unable to attend. Quaint setting. Under the lights. American flag. A community gathering.
Americana.
Martin Luther King Day, 2021, began by raising seven flags in our neighborhood. It’s my one responsibility for our HOA. Every holiday is an honor.
Next, an errand to the Dallas Morning News office in downtown Dallas. The 40-minute return trip home would include a planned stop—then an unexpected detour. Neither would disappoint.
From the Dallas Morning News, a short drive to the baseball field at Reverchon Park—a 100-year-old park that somehow eluded me since moving to Dallas/Fort Worth. Willie Mays, Ty Cobb, Johnny Bench and Bob Feller all played there. Quite unusual for someone whose mission in life is to visit every sports venue on planet Earth to have taken so long to visit.
“Baseball at Night” was on my mind as I walked the perimeter of the ball field. The Reverchon field has a similar vibe.
Friends have recently been sharing pictures on Facebook of our Little League days back in Minnesota. I imagined us taking the field as 9-year-olds at Reverchon wearing our Twins, Cubs, Red Sox and Yankees t-shirts. Just a bunch of kids having fun in a great setting.
Goose bumps here. Not so much at the Louvre.
After eight years in Dallas/Fort Worth, I know my way around quite well. But I’d never been to the Reverchon neighborhood, so I relied on the navigation system to guide me home. Things went fine for a mile, or so. But 300 feet before a stoplight, the app insisted that I turn left into a hospital parking lot.
Confusion. Agitation. Compliance.
I love maps. I like navigation apps. But I often struggle to understand the logic of that voice emanating from the Waze app. I may have gotten verbal with it.
Truth be told, I often do.
“Why on Earth,”—or something with more bite than that, “would you send me through a hospital parking lot, then to the main entrance before leading me back to the main road??”
As I turned towards the main road, I noticed a group of kids standing around a flagpole, gazing respectfully skyward. The emotions of raising the flags hours earlier in our neighborhood were still with me.
Surely, I had to take a closer look.
Nowhere to park on this short stretch of road. Proceeded to the stoplight ahead, but rather than turning left to drive home, I turned right, then right, then right, then right. Basically, around the block and into the parking lot of Texas Scottish Rite Hospital, perhaps better known as Scottish Rite for Children.
Per their website, Scottish Rite for Children specializes in treatment for the following conditions: scoliosis & spine, limb lengthening and reconstruction, hand conditions, clubfoot and foot disorders, hip disorders, and sports medicine.
I’ve lived 60 years, never having to learn Scottish Rite for Children’s purpose. Never had to endure the challenges these innocent kids face.
After parking, I walked towards the flag and crossed paths with a preoccupied mother carrying her young boy towards the hospital entrance. As I paused to let them pass, the boy gave me a quick, shy smile. I assumed he was in need of treatment, but he didn’t appear to be upset. Perhaps he knew there were good people inside. People there to help him.
Heroes.
I arrived at the flagpole. The kids—more appropriately, the bronze statues of kids were impeccably done. It felt like a scene from summer camp–raising and lowering the flag at dawn and dusk. The detail was amazing–Louvre quality, it seemed. But what do I know about art? All I know is that I was in no hurry to leave—no hurry to go find a croissant.
Click the play button below for a close up view of the statues. It's definitely worth 90 seconds of your time.
I could see another statue a short distance away. A girl flying a kite.
Then a series of statues. More kids. Playing. Smiling. Celebrating. Kids everywhere, yet nowhere—if you know what I mean.
Silence.
But there was more to this exhibit. The trap awaited.
I entered the maze.
I walked between the hedges. Left, then straight. A quick right. Left, left, then right. Felt like a confused navigation app was guiding me. This continued until I understood where this was leading–what this was all about.
In front of me—a wishing well.
To my right—the Scottish Rite Hospital for Children.
It all made sense now. I was standing on hallowed ground for the kids inside that hospital. Surely, kids have looked out those windows wishing they could walk, run, throw dribble a ball, swing a racket, fly a kite, make a putt—just be a care-free kid.
Surely, they had all approached the well—arms wrapped around Mom or Dad—perhaps walking with some form of labor. Perhaps unable to hold a hand. They expressed their wishes—for things I already have. For things I take for granted now. For things I’ve taken for granted my entire life.
Surely, the heroes inside—doctors, nurses, caretakers, volunteers—often made their wishes come true. I imagine those kids looking up to their caretakers like the bronzed kids looked up to the flag.
The most famous painting in the world evoked little more than a “been there, done that” reaction for me. Glenna Goodacre’s imagination and sculpting talent–displayed in the perfect, inspirational location was unforgettable.
The emotion which eluded me in Paris finally found me in Dallas. Frog in my throat, and perhaps something welling in my eyes. Perhaps now, it’s all happening again as I type.
No, I’m not saying it actually happened. It just might have happened.
I spend many Friday nights in Texas writing about kids who excel at running, jumping, throwing, and catching—about kids exhibiting their physical blessings—about kids who hear the cheers of thousands. As I write this, I’m in metaphorically back in front of the well, wishing that someday the kids who cross the street to play on the grounds of Scottish Rite will do–and hear, the same.
Paris offered a spectacular assembly of humanity’s best.
For me, a well-planned display—including an emotional trap, of sorts, in front of a hospital offered something better.
It offered a reminder—no—it offered proof, that good people—fantastic people, still exist. People who offer their physical and intellectual blessings—and their good hearts, to help the wishes of those less fortunate come true.
Bless them all.
