To the Kimball Art Muesum in Fort Worth, Texas

Kimball Museum, Fort Worth, Texas

 

In 6th grade, leaving Dallas, even if it was for Fort Worth, without my parents, was exhilarating. And we got to ride a bus, an actual yellow school bus. Leaving school for a whole day.

Between Dallas and Fort Worth, there was a stretch of travel that was movie-Texas. Flat, no trees, no houses, but roads off the highway every now and then. A truck. We’ve left the city, its shine and pulse.

We push out of the bus and stand for a moment, staring at you. White windowless arches. Reflecting pool. Clearly not a school or a church, yet sacred. For the first time, I understand, not consciously, the idea of a constructed space. You were someone’s dream. And inside, the dreams of painters and sculptors.

Architecture.

Ceiling inside the gallery

The building itself is art. I see it right away. We walk through and the sunlight paints the walls, paints me and I am in the art. I am a part of it. I am the art.

I think none of this, but I know it.

We saw paintings by Michelangelo and Picasso. Monet. Mondrian. I remember the walls behind them, the lines of the corners and floors around them. Walking. The space unfolds with every turn.