Barbara A. Wanchisen

The National Gallery of Art's ice skating rink brings people together in the winter months. For me, watching people tackle the ice is a highpoint of the year and I enjoy stopping by as often as possible.
 
On a recent visit, when it wasn't particularly crowded, I spied an older couple slowly and gently making their way around and around the rink. The woman was silently gliding with care and her partner skated backwards so he could hold her hand and lead the way. Periodically he looked over his shoulder to see where they were headed so he could keep them on course.
 
As someone who is afraid of falling on ice, I was delighted and maybe a little amazed seeing them out there. There was just something special, if not poignant, about this couple.
 
I wondered if their skating style mimicked the way that they handle challenging situations throughout life. That is, maybe they skillfully navigate the vagaries of life's terrain, with quiet confidence in each other, hand in hand. I hope so.

On Thanksgiving Day, people were milling about, mostly entering or leaving restaurants but some were just getting a good walk in on that food-focused holiday. I wandered past the Downtown Holiday Market on my way to the national mall and noticed that everything was locked up – or so it seemed.
 

One sole booth was opened and a man, wearing a thick flannel shirt and jeans, was inside moving around. He occupied an end booth, so I could get fairly close. I watched him moving things around inside his booth for a minute, his back to the world.
 
"Hey! Today's a holiday and you're working?" (I had to yell a bit to be heard.)
 
He turned around. "This is a perfect day to rearrange the booth." Then he paused. "I'm from Boston and I don't know anyone here so I might as well do this work now."
 
"Boston? You'll have to prove that. Let me hear your accent!"
 
He then went into what I can only call a Boston Rant to which I belly-laughed. I only wish I had written down what he said. Come to think of it, I'm not so sure I recognized all of the words anyway!
 
We then shared a few pleasantries and he encouraged me to return when the booth was open because he had the best hot chocolate in the world and, he added, "I'm not even kidding." (That made me smile.) Then I said I had to get going and he thanked me for stopping to talk with him for a while, that he really appreciated it. 
 
Even though I walk by the market almost every day, there always seems to be a reason for me to not stop, to not try the best hot chocolate in the world.  Maybe the brief exchange that we had on Thanksgiving Day was enough, perfect actually. Talking to someone who was alone on a holiday made my day and likely his, too. That's pretty good stuff to end with. 

The National Gallery of Art shows quirky films and nothing is quirkier (or better) than when they select a silent movie. It is especially great when they accompany the movie with a live piano performance as was the style some 100 years ago.
 
In the auditorium, the lights go down, the shades slowly close, a black and white movie appears on the screen with few intermittent words to read, and the music takes you to a different time and place.
 
This is what it was like when our ancestors went to see a silent film in the theater. Well, they probably didn't call it "silent" because who knew back then that there would one day be "talkies?"
 
Recently I saw "Her Wild Oat" with Ben Model as piano accompanist. I'd laugh at the slightest humorous event, at scenes or situations that I wouldn't even notice in a modern film. I appreciated this artistic piece within its time period and I wasn't alone. The large audience was riveted to the stage.
 
When the movie ended, the audience burst into vigorous applause, some stood in standing ovation, and I sat and watched everyone. There was joy in the air.

I didn't want to leave but I soon had to go back outside and face reality. And when I did, I didn't turn my cell phone back on nor did I check email for quite a while.

I can't recall ever seeing an outdoor sculpture get a serious cleaning. If I thought about it at all, I would have thought that rain basically does the work. 
 
In the National Gallery of Art Sculpture Garden, there resides an almost 10 ton sculpture called Aurora, by artist Mark di Suvero.  On a given day, many people stop and appreciate it for a few moments and then move on as there is a lot to see on the grounds.
 
But on this particular day, there was a crew with a ladder, hoses, brushes and whatnot standing on the sculpture providing a deep cleaning. I wasn't thrilled to see them standing on the actual art piece while they worked, it seemed disrespectful in a way. But I have to say, they looked almost like they were part of that sculpture!  (And I guess 10 tons makes it solid for human weight of course.)
 
Many people stopped to watch them and then would tarry a while, commenting to each other (I suspect about the spectacle of the cleaning process). I stood at a distance and just enjoyed the novelty of this. What a special and kind of beautiful thing to witness. And truly, those workers brought the sculpture to life, albeit in a quirky way.

Tourists dragging suitcases are just part of the background in downtown DC. But sometimes a particular tourist will stand out.
 
A small, middle-aged woman had just exited the metro station, toting a suitcase that surely was heavier than she was and almost as tall. She stopped and leaned on her bag to look at her cell phone and would look across the street, then back at the phone, then across the street and so on.
 
I stopped. "Do you need help? Are you lost?"
 
"I think I'm ok. The hotel seems to be just a couple of blocks from here," she said. "I'm in town for the NA Conference."
 
I looked at her quizzically and she said, "Narcotics Anonymous. There will be thousands attending – I am excited to meet as many people as I can."
 
I nodded. "Well, the convention center is not far from here," I said as I gestured in its direction.
 
She smiled and then again looked across the street. "I am from the west coast and have never been to DC. We don't have buildings like those!"
 
I looked where she was looking and of course, nothing looked special to me.
 
"Welcome to the nation's capitol! You'll be seeing a lot of buildings like that for sure!"
 
"Thanks for being so friendly – I really appreciate it," she said as she waved and dragged that enormous bag down the street. I watched her go, hoping that her convention would be everything she wanted it to be, and that she would find time to see more of the city.
 
And I would try to stay alert and be appreciative of the unique beauty of my daily environment.

I love classical music and so it's no surprise that I frequent orchestra performances at the Kennedy Center. A creature of habit, I sit in a certain section of the music hall, enjoy the familiarity of surroundings, and feel any tension disappear as the performance gets underway. Perfect.
 
But at a recent show, there were no seats available in my favorite section so I wound up sitting in the second row of the orchestra level, knowing the sound wouldn't be as good and that I would be very/too close to the stage.
 
However, once I found my seat I became taken with this new bird's eye view. The musicians were just feet away from me as they organized themselves, tuned their instruments, and set up their music sheets in anticipation of the performance soon to begin. I watched them with interest. I felt like an insider.
 
Almost immediately, one of the cellists caught my attention.
 
He had a kind of artsy, mostly black canvas bag hanging from the neck of his cello, resting between the cello and his body, discretely hidden from general view. I never would have seen it from my usual seat. (See picture, shown above.) 
 
I wondered what was in that bag, why he would need or want it hanging there. When I later googled "accessories for cellos" I only found mostly large items such as a case, strings, bow, and endpin rests. But rosin and polishers were also listed. Maybe he carried rosin, I don't know, or maybe he carried a snack, breath mints, or cigarettes!  
 
For whatever reason, this quirky bag of the musician captured my attention and provided a new light on the show. I normally think of an orchestra as a group, a literal synthesis of individuals working together. But while the whole of the orchestra is definitely greater than the sum of its parts, the parts are interesting and can be charming in their own right if we look through that lens too.

Several years ago, a friend asked to meet at the Mary Livingston Ripley Garden on the national mall. I had no idea where it was, which seemed weird as I had walked that area frequently over the years, plus had repeatedly visited the buildings nearby. (This garden is nestled between the Hirshhorn and Smithsonian Museums.)
 
When I walked into the garden, immediately I was entranced by the lushness of the trees and the variety of flowers in full bloom. The garden path snaked around revealing a much larger garden than the entrance portended, much to my delight.
 
Dedicated on May 25, 1988, the inscription on the welcoming plaque says: "This garden was created by the Smithsonian Institution Women's Committee to honor their founder and friend."
 
Soon after that initial encounter, visiting the park became a regular stop for me. I appreciate watching (and smelling) the naturally evolving landscape, seeing the birds flying around the fountain, and sitting a while to take a break. Plus what a treat to sometimes talk to the knowledgeable and enthusiastic staff, busy keeping the grounds in tip-top shape.
 
I'm extremely grateful to the women who imagined - and then realized - such a special way to honor their friend Mary. So many people benefit from their efforts and surely will continue to do so for generations to come.

Well done, ladies! 

On a brilliantly sunny Monday morning, I approached the corner of 7 & H Streets, just missing the WALK signal. There was a crowd growing there, waiting to cross. As I removed my jacket, a woman pleasantly said, "Hot day today," and I agreed, nodding.
 
"I hope the weather is this good on Wednesday - it's my birthday," she said.
 
"Do you have plans for a nice birthday?" I asked. (I assumed that she did.)
 
"Not really. This is always a bad week every year. My husband died several years ago today." She paused. "And my grandchild died two days after my birthday."
 
"This is terrible!" I turned to really look at her. She was no longer a stranger.
 
"That child was only seven months old."
 
We crossed the street and paused because clearly she was about to go down H Street and I was headed up 7th. I looked at her sad and dazed expression a moment and, as she started to walk away, I said, "I will think of you on Wednesday, wishing you a happy birthday." She thanked me and disappeared in the crowd.
 
And so our (maybe) five-minute relationship played out.
 
I think of this woman from time to time, reminding me how we never know what anyone else is going through. And despite the frustrations of daily life, I need to be more patient and yielding as I walk among strangers on the street.

The large sculpture called Typewriter Eraser, Scale X* resides near an entrance to the grounds of the National Gallery of Art Sculpture Garden.  It is fun to pause there just to overhear reactions from visitors who are seeing it for the first time.
 
"What is that?"
 
"I've never seen anything like that before!"
 
Children stand there looking confused, asking questions. Typically, adults laugh and say something like, "I'm old enough to know the answer," and then they go down a mental alley first saying it's an eraser for a typewriter, then explaining what a typewriter is, and then why a typewriter would need an eraser.
 
For some reason, I find these exchanges funny and engaging and that's why I pause at the sculpture, especially when I see a group approaching.
 
When I first saw this sculpture many years ago I wondered why an artist would use an eraser as a model for a sculpture in the first place. It seemed so mundane, if not strange. But who knew that years later so many people would quickly get engaged in the sculpture and in so many different ways. Self included.

*Sculpted by Oldenburg & Bruggen (1999)

It's cherry blossom time in DC!
 
I have witnessed 22 cherry blossom seasons as a local resident and have found this time of year quaint: from the weeks leading up to it, the time itself while nature awakens the trees, and even the ending phase leading to the final loss of the blossoms.
 
This time of year presents a rare opportunity to bring locals together with predictable, simple conversations and usually all are smiling.
 
"When do you think the cherry blossoms will be at peak?"
 
"Where do you go to see the cherry blossoms?" (This usually implies not the Tidal Basin since it will be jammed with tourists.)
 
"Will you get a chance to see them this year or will you be out of town?"
 
And despite having seen the cherry blossoms for decades now, I easily fall into the excitement that only this time of year can bring. It's just too sweet, too nice, too special to pass up. So every year, out I go, to walk around smiling for a few hours while inspecting the blossoms and taking a few pictures.
 
This year I went to the National Arboretum with a friend, not one of my typical haunts for this cherry blossom appreciation. It was sunny, windy and just stunning to walk around that park. Hardly anyone else was there which was a bonus for us to peacefully contemplate nature.
 
So I fulfilled my annual ritual and I feel satisfied. I am certain that sometime early next year as winter abates a bit, the local conversation will turn to discussing when peak bloom is expected and where the best place is to see the cherry blossoms. There is a kind of comfort in knowing that.