Dear Friends,
Will you all mind terribly if this week I talk about swimming instead of art. Or maybe the art of swimming? As I prepare for the Tyson Think Tank this August at Crystal Bridges Museum of American Art, I’m reading critical theory, audience response theory, approaches to anti-racism, and had a totally inspiring session with the Crystal Bridges summer interns on museums as welcoming environments (or not). I’ll digest all of it, and then add more, which is the point of the intensive study that will engage me for all of August and beyond, as this work is never done, never completely right, always worth exploring.
It’s a lot and the way I know to calm my mind, create that space of solace, sort through jumbled thoughts, get less anxious about it all, is to walk or, for me, even better, is to swim.
Because it’s summer and I’m on Diamond Lake in Michigan (check out last week’s post on that), I’ve been swimming almost every day. Yesterday I swam in the local triathlon, a total blast that had me in the water earlier than usual, 7:30am for a 500 yard swim. I loved swimming with people, and hadn't thought about how solitary swimming is most days. Until I was standing there with a few hundred other early bird athletes waiting our turn to dive into the lake and follow a short course marked by giant orange buoys. So many triathletes have fear of the water, it’s the hardest part. I’ve been reading Why We Swim by Bonnie Tsui, described by the author as “stories of Olympic champions, a Baghdad swim club that meets in Saddam Hussein’s palace pool, modern‑day Japanese samurai swimmers, even an Icelandic fisherman who improbably survives a wintry six‑hour swim after a shipwreck.” Yes, all that, and beautifully woven, yes the author writes beautifully and swims like a fish herself. Yet, when in line for the swim leg of the race yesterday, looking forward to jumping in myself but hearing fretful conversation all around me, I thought of Tsui’s definition of swimming as “a constant state of not drowning.” She loves Loudon Wainwright’s “The Swimming Song” which links swimming to self-destruction. As an aside, I love that song too, and also “Daughter” because my daughter loves to swim, yes, that’s my daughter in the water.
You know I’m a big proponent of walking slowly and with curiosity and courage, and I hope that is something available to every human. Walking, looking, seeing, listening. The same thing happens with swimming, but while walking is a natural state for us, swimming is not. While walking, distraction creeps in, minds wander, we can walk without paying close attention to actually walking. Right? I suppose that happens swimming, too, but swimming is more demanding. Walking can happen with partial attention, but swimming asks for whole attention. We have to breathe under the water, that takes effort. What did Captain Ismael say in Moby Dick: “Yes, as everyone knows, meditation and water and wedded together.” We must be present in the water.
I have huge respect for the water and the solace it brings me. Because I swam a lot this week means that my usual time walking and pondering paintings was instead spent thinking of nothing, truly nothing while I was in the water. Emerging from a swim, I feel like a creature from the deep, even if I’m just walking onto the sand and grabbing my towel, the sense of adventure remains.
Take a walk or a swim
My favorite quote from Bonnie Tsui is “We submerge ourselves in the natural world because the natural world has a way of eliciting awe.” Honestly I feel that way in museums, too, art has a way of eliciting awe. Do something that inspires awe every day, truly take-your-breath-away awe.
And onward
Next weekend I’ll be in Seattle for a family wedding and plan to find a painting at the Seattle Art Museum to share with you. Stay tuned...
Until next week, keep walking (or swimming) and looking, slowly and with curiosity and courage,
Carrie
