Beatrix.
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We spent most of my birthday at the Denver Art Museum’s Hamilton Building, dedicated to modern art.
Modern art is provocative, whimsical, and often challenging. Many body parts usually covered in white cotton Hanes were on display. Reactions were elicited, explanations were offered. A big pink foot? Pretty tame.
We barely scratched the surface of the DAM’s numerous galleries.
The beauty of modern art? Everyone thinks they could do it, if only they had a big grant from the NEA and 62 yards of violet velvet.
We ate my birthday lunch at Mad Greens. My sandwich was named after Fidel Castro. Beatrix loved the chairs.
The horse on the big red chair is one of those inexplicable Denver landmarks.
After eating, we visited the museum’s original building which houses pre-1950s art, spending most of the time on the sixth floor. The view was appreciated.
We ended our day viewing artifacts in the Spanish Colonial galleries. Treasures, everywhere.
So far: I woke up and lurched down the stairs, still sleepy. I walked into the kitchen, where 22 seconds remained on the oven’s timer. My husband was baking cinnamon rolls, and my timing couldn’t have been better. Charmed, already. I poured Morning Thunder coffee into my green mug and asked if I could have the privilege of icing the rolls. I could. As I iced, I chose the roll I wanted—a fat, gooey sugary conch shell of baked beauty on the edge. I lifted it onto a plate. I ate outside, June-cool with young day’s sun shimmering through the aspens in our yard. People walked their dogs on the green belt’s path beyond our fence. I watched them. Most didn’t seem to notice me with my green mug clutched close, smiling. I wanted to yell, like a 6-year-old, “Today is my birthday! Isn’t that the best?” Maybe throw in a bathrobe twirl and curtsey? |
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