This was a first for me, I toured a private art collection. It made an impression on me so I made a few sentimental notes:
I'll never see these works again. I'm grateful to have seen them once.
It was a little fundraiser and promotion. I was on the waiting list and got a spot at the last minute.
There were art dealers and gallery owners, curators, and collectors, artists and me. I wore a nice shirt and smiled.
It was a bit intimidating, being with experts and enthusiasts.
But experts are just as shy as everyone else.
The art itself was the equalizer. It worked on novice and expert alike.
I'd met the collector in another context. I knew of him more than I knew him personally.
Was he a snooty art collector showing off his wealth and taste? No. And I've been thinking about this. He was modest and humble, courageous too I think. If "art is the truest truth," then the collection must expose the collector.
He was a steward rather than an owner. He protected and appreciated the work. He knew that the work would outlive him. He only had it for a while. I thought it was in good hands.
It's was a family home, a family with dogs. The dogs toured with us.
We toured the stairwell, landings, foyer, living room, family room and office.
He showed us around then we had some time to wander.
Were two hours enough? It was enough time to be overwhelmed yet barely time to appreciate a handful of pieces.
I tried to see every piece twice then I lingered at a few. Time is what works for me.
There was a print in the office, a Miro I think, I can't keep it in my head. It was so beautiful, it lit up the room.
Folks were attracted to it, they wandered away then wandered back.
It was as if they were huddling around a warm hearth on a cool night.
Lindbergh MARTA station at night, Atlanta
5 hours ago