This weekend we took the girls on an outing to the High Museum, which was having a grand opening for its new wing, so admission was free and there were all sorts of events. We took MARTA, which our youngest was very excited about. She loves trains, and this was just as good as a train to her. The museum was so changed I barely recognized it (well, it has been 20 years). It still smelled of paint. There were some activities for children, so we got to watch the girls make angels. Five-year-old’s actually looks like an angel, with the wings in correct position. Three-year-old’s looks like a Picasso angel, with a wing smack in the middle of her stomach, random slashes of color, and a lot of glue. Yes, a lot of white, sloppy, drippy glue. We then took in a little jazz, which scared Three-year-old for some reason, and she clung tightly to me and refused to join the other dancing children. This is the same child who, when I attempt to sing, puts her small hand over my mouth and says, “STOP!”
We then refueled the girls with Sprite, which seemed to infuse them with sprites, all right. We went blundering about in the general direction of the children’s exhibits but somehow ended up in contemporary arts. Five-year-old loved these paintings and sculptures, and we had to be careful not to miss any, because she would belt out, “Hey, we didn’t see this one. You’re missing stuff!” She was very impressed with a Howard Finster bicycle and the Frank Lloyd Wright furniture. Three-year-old liked being around Five-year-old, but spent a lot of time spinning around while holding onto my little finger. When she got dizzy she would fall down on her bottom and laugh. I’m not sure she thought much about the art, but she pointed out babies to me, because she love babies. Five-year-old sometimes got a bit too wild and ran around the wide gallery spaces in circles, alarming the security guards. We kept having to remind her not to touch anything, which was a bit difficult WHEN SOME ADULTS WERE TOUCHING THE ART. In New York if you got within a foot of a painting at the Met, a guard started inching toward you; any closer and the voice of doom intervened. We never did find the children’s exhibits, which I gather were in the basement.
We ended up with a family membership and the pleasure of hearing Five-year-old say, emphatically, “That was fun!”