My husband is a huge Frank Lloyd Wright fan. He’s been to Fallingwater, and nods his head in recognition when I say, The Fountainhead. When we met in New York twenty years ago, he asked to visit the Guggenheim Museum.
He likes to sit in the lobby, and just enjoy the building.
The building is an excellent marriage of form and function. There is harmony, there is music, there is a jolting of the senses. One is forced to acknowledge architecture as a living art, encompassing other art forms as well.
Currently there is an excellent retrospective of Italian artist Alberto Burri’s (1915-1995) work. The exhibition is beautifully titled, The Trauma of Painting.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t allowed to photograph. Burri’s works are powerful, evocative, made even more arresting with his deliberate choice of fashioning paintings from humble materials such as sack cloth, paper, wood. Towards the end of his life, we see like Matisse, the quest for an even more pared-down language, and in its simplicity, so very much is felt, and said.
I missed my husband today. His absence is echoed on the streets that are so familiar to me, to us.
He would have enjoyed being at the Guggenheim. I would have enjoyed walking beside him. I would have enjoyed, holding his hand.
- The Guggenheim Museum, 1071 5th Avenue at 89th Street