We poked around Santa Fe yesterday after we leisurely, well I say leisurely but I was actually trying to send emails and couldn’t get them to go and so was getting the usual work anxiety. I was cleaning the coffee pot and dropped it in the sink – smash crash. At a certain point I gave up and then we walked down Bishop to Washington and into the square.
At the Georgia O’Keefe museum, we watched a brief film of her incredible life. How amazing it must have been to live almost 100 years doing exactly what you want to do in such incredible places. The museum, we had been warned, does not have a collection of her best works, as a matter of fact they might even be considered her lesser works as the major museums and collectors seem to have her best pieces. A private collector had some works in one room and there were two Hoppers that were quiet and stunning.
The curator had little quips from her in script on the walls – most of which I didn’t like that much except this one: Singing is the purest expression. It’s spontaneous. Since I cannot sing, I paint. I very much feel the same way. Since I can’t sing, I write and dance. But singing is my first love. I think every writer longs to sing rather than sit down at a computer and type their thoughts and feelings, think of just standing by the window and singing your soul. So few people have this gift. My friend in San Francisco has a gorgeous voice and I think about her at her desk working on conservation matters when in reality why isn’t she paid to just stand still and sing?