“Okay since we don’t have time to see everything, let’s play a game,” I say, pulling off my jacket. “We’re going to look for art that best fits certain categories. My proposals are: most ridiculous… prettiest… and most likely to succeed.”
Connor laughs, and we step into the National Gallery. I’ve had a lot of fun in this museum, and I’m excited to share it with Connor and see how it resonates with him.
“This is ridiculous. This is absolutely ridiculous,” he says, squinting at a painting of a an imaginary ideal gallery of a collection of paintings, sculptures, and tools. I throw it in the ring for prettiest. (What? It's pretty!)
Connor laughs, and we step into the National Gallery. I’ve had a lot of fun in this museum, and I’m excited to share it with Connor and see how it resonates with him.
“This is ridiculous. This is absolutely ridiculous,” he says, squinting at a painting of a an imaginary ideal gallery of a collection of paintings, sculptures, and tools. I throw it in the ring for prettiest. (What? It's pretty!)
Cognoscenti in a Room hung with Pictures, by Unknown Flemish Artist, about 1620
“I want to add a category. Most contented.” Connor says.
“What does contented mean?”
“A piece of art that is most comfortable and confident.”
“Mmm, gotcha.”
Connor knows this game is helping me re-engage a dormant part of my mind, the part that notices and shares details. When we were in Brixton, I realized I had been filtering out details recently. Then, somewhere between dinner and walking a few days later, I realized it was deeper than that.
"I think this is the most contented painting I've seen so far," I declare, looking at a painting of ruins being overtaken slowly by plants, peppered with people comfortable in their tasks. I'm sure it's depicting a myth I can't identify, but that's okay. What's important is that it's making me feel relaxed by looking at it. Connor moves next to me and nods. He likes it a lot, too.
“What does contented mean?”
“A piece of art that is most comfortable and confident.”
“Mmm, gotcha.”
Connor knows this game is helping me re-engage a dormant part of my mind, the part that notices and shares details. When we were in Brixton, I realized I had been filtering out details recently. Then, somewhere between dinner and walking a few days later, I realized it was deeper than that.
"I think this is the most contented painting I've seen so far," I declare, looking at a painting of ruins being overtaken slowly by plants, peppered with people comfortable in their tasks. I'm sure it's depicting a myth I can't identify, but that's okay. What's important is that it's making me feel relaxed by looking at it. Connor moves next to me and nods. He likes it a lot, too.
Landscape with the Rest on the Flight into Egypt, by Pierre Patel, 1652
"I want to add another category," Connor begins, "most self-serious." The painting he's pointing to looks staged. It looks like these people held this pose for a very, very long time to look very, very serious.
A Woman Playing a Lute to Two Men, by Gerard ter Boch, 1668
We laugh.
A few days ago, when Connor and I talked about how I think my detail-filter was deeper than I anticipated, I began to grapple with cognitive dissonance in a way that felt like I was loosening a ball of yarn in my brain, massaging it so I can see what's hiding inside.
Paying attention to details is something I love. It’s something I’m good at. And when I went on international trips before, I was a college student who leveraged this skill. When I became a teacher, I had to stop. I had to force myself to stop.
I had to stop paying attention to every part of a lesson plan, so I could get enough sleep at night. I had to stop paying attention to every individual thing I learned about every person I interacted with, because it overwhelmed me. I had to start practicing noticing the salient things—what are the things that have the largest impact? Notice that. Dig into that. Everything else needs to be glossed over. My work is not sustainable otherwise.
And, with practice, I became good at honing this filter. I became good at looking at huge piles of student work and noticing the most important trends. I became good at noticing the most important feedback I could share with my colleagues when I was in their classrooms. I became good at looking at lesson plans and revising the most important portions. I became good at reading hundreds of student letters every Friday and remembering what felt most important about each one.
I can tell you something about every student I have ever taught. I can tell you what they’re good at. I can tell you what their goals were when they were my student. I can tell you what many of them are up to now. I can’t tell you every single thing they’ve shared with me, but I can tell you the most important things. This filter was how I could still be the kind of teacher I want to be without being so overwhelmed that it drowns me.
But I didn’t realize that this filter started bleeding into everything else. I don't want to be like that all the time—I don’t want to listen to my close friends tell me about their day and only remember what I think is important. I want to know everything they want to share with me. I don’t want to walk in my neighborhood and only notice what helps me get around. I want to notice what’s in the cracks, I want to notice how time shifts and who occupies which spaces. There’s a joy in taking as long as you want looking at a thing and noticing what resonates with you. What surprises you. What makes you feel weird.
I haven’t felt that kind of joy in a long time. I cried when I shared this with Connor, and then we cried together.
But, now, I feel a kind of hopefulness I haven’t felt in a long time. Now that I know, I can do something about it. I don't have to wait for things to get better on their own. I feel grateful.
Paying attention to details is something I love. It’s something I’m good at. And when I went on international trips before, I was a college student who leveraged this skill. When I became a teacher, I had to stop. I had to force myself to stop.
I had to stop paying attention to every part of a lesson plan, so I could get enough sleep at night. I had to stop paying attention to every individual thing I learned about every person I interacted with, because it overwhelmed me. I had to start practicing noticing the salient things—what are the things that have the largest impact? Notice that. Dig into that. Everything else needs to be glossed over. My work is not sustainable otherwise.
And, with practice, I became good at honing this filter. I became good at looking at huge piles of student work and noticing the most important trends. I became good at noticing the most important feedback I could share with my colleagues when I was in their classrooms. I became good at looking at lesson plans and revising the most important portions. I became good at reading hundreds of student letters every Friday and remembering what felt most important about each one.
I can tell you something about every student I have ever taught. I can tell you what they’re good at. I can tell you what their goals were when they were my student. I can tell you what many of them are up to now. I can’t tell you every single thing they’ve shared with me, but I can tell you the most important things. This filter was how I could still be the kind of teacher I want to be without being so overwhelmed that it drowns me.
But I didn’t realize that this filter started bleeding into everything else. I don't want to be like that all the time—I don’t want to listen to my close friends tell me about their day and only remember what I think is important. I want to know everything they want to share with me. I don’t want to walk in my neighborhood and only notice what helps me get around. I want to notice what’s in the cracks, I want to notice how time shifts and who occupies which spaces. There’s a joy in taking as long as you want looking at a thing and noticing what resonates with you. What surprises you. What makes you feel weird.
I haven’t felt that kind of joy in a long time. I cried when I shared this with Connor, and then we cried together.
But, now, I feel a kind of hopefulness I haven’t felt in a long time. Now that I know, I can do something about it. I don't have to wait for things to get better on their own. I feel grateful.
Connor calls me over urgently. He's gasping in the National Gallery for the first time. "Grishma... look at this."
The Adoration of the Kings, by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, 1564
"I don't get it. It just looks like a Christian painting."
"No Grishma, look closer."
"Oh, ew."
The Adoration of the Kings, by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, 1564 (Detail)
"Read the description," he urges.
"The tiny, naked Christ Child seems vulnerable among the heavily armed men. He recoils from the gift of myrrh, a spice used to prepare bodies for burial, forseeing his future death?? What??"
Connor continues where I left off: "By contrast, the spectators, one wearing glasses, are blind to what is before them, the son of God made man to redeem fallen humanity."
"Most ridiculous. Most self-serious. This is so bad. It's so good."
The Adoration of the Kings, by Pieter Bruegel the Elder, 1564 (Detail)
We laugh about this one for much longer than the other ridiculous ones.
“I’m going to add a category. Best dog," I say.
The museum closes soon, and we didn't actually decide on paintings for any of the categories, and that's okay. We found some great dogs in those last minutes.
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