warm museum on a cold day.

there is talk of snow tomorrow, and this was a day for bundling baby into his bunting, cradling a foam-kissed coffee, and wending across the great lawn to spend a few good hours in the european painting wing at the met. it's a tempo we have known since that very first museum stroll when he was but six weeks new: wander, nurse, snooze, again. i had a good laugh with myself: folks travel the world to lay their eyes on the galleries that francis brown naps inside.

with boy in dreams, i got lost in the maritime oil paintings of j.m.w. turner and added him to my miles-long, and growing, list of people and places, words and ideas i want to know more about. and then: rounding the corner that brings into view the very scenes i could climb into and spin out a lifetime inside (rose-pink, a lesson, a violin, the opera, the barre, the little one in bronze, the very thought of a star) i heard a singsong-chirp and a happy-paw of palms lifted as if to say, let me see. as if to say, i love them, too.

a wander through the cloisters.

a pair of weeks ago, when my dad and christy were here with us, we drove up to the cloisters one sunny afternoon and i stood once again in jaw-dropped awe at the serene beauty of this hilltop bouquet of art, architecture, and gardens of medieval europe. bundled in our woolies, we wandered in and out of chapels and halls and light-filled spaces, listened in on a talk describing beekeeping practices in the middle ages, and meandered gardens brimming with rare species of flowers and herbs and trees useful to medicine, housekeeping, and craft making in medieval monastic life. as always, my breath hooked in my chest at sight of the flemish hunt of the unicorn tapestries and windows shining with bright stained glass. as always, when the day was done, we headed southward in disbelief that something so peacefully picturesque could possibly exist on this hustling-bustling island. it feels so utterly far away in space and time. 

say it simple.

this public art installation is currently hand-painted on the corner of houston and mott streets. it's a lovely thing to stumble upon.

thirty years ago, the artists looked upon a bulletin board hanging in a ceramic factory in thailand and saw this code of conduct looking back. the text has lived many lives since then -- as a postcard, a screen print, a book cover, a mural on a wall in zurich. every time the artists reproduce it, they work from stencils they created from a photograph.

it's called how to work better, but it seems to me a valuable, enduring approach to the everyday -- really, simply, how to live better.

worlds might be revealed by scrutinizing the ordinary.

over the weekend, i happened upon an incredible exhibit at the met. it showcases the work of garry winogrand, a photographer of american life, particularly in new york city, from the 1950s to 1980s. i was previously unfamiliar with his work and now i cannot stop thinking about the images i saw this weekend. 

i find street photography terribly fascinating -- it's just so real. these photographs capture those post-war years so rawly and honestly -- central park protests, airport scenes, zoo animals, politicians, hippies, lovers, daily life -- and winogrand's candid style really echoes with me. if there is anything at all i would like to capture with my own camera, it is how life really was -- how it really is. 

if you are in or around new york and interested, the exhibit runs through september 21. the title of this post comes from the sign at the entrance. i love that thought -- all that we might gain by paying attention to (and even celebrating!) life's small, ordinary moments.