That It’s September 13th and I’m 31

Pablo Picasso, 1881-1973
Two Nudes, 1906
Oil on Canvas, 59 5/8″ x 36 5/8″
The Museum of Modern Art, New York
Spanish Genius, Co-Founded Cubist Movement

Ah the irony of life. Never again will I be 31 on the 13th day of September. LOVING IT! After all, life is in the details, right?

This being said, sometimes the only thing that matters are the details, those golden filaments that are hidden in the cracks of the mundane. If we look closely enough, they emerge like so many treasures from the depths of the oceans that reside in each and every one of us.

The day after I signed my cookbook deal, I decided to visit the San Francisco Museum of Fine Art to take in the Richard Avedon exhibit, which was stunning not just because of the subject matter but because of the way he printed his work which was almost always on a grand scale. And the elusive moments he captured of such epic icons of our era made something very vulnerable within me shift.

Many of these luminaries, including Andy Warhol, Marylin Monroe, and JFK are now all gone, but there they were, staring back at me, transmuting the all and everything of what it means to live a life. We are all just a single bloom and if we are lucky enough, maybe, just maybe, someone will come and smell our unique fragrance and call it beautiful.

I could feel my heart squeeze and my stomach contract as I walked into the next gallery.

I wandered aimlessly for a spell and then, I found myself standing before Mark Rothko’s No. 14 and forgetting where I was, I began to weep. The tears could not be held back by any force, and they came in streaming rivulets from my eyes and I could not look away. My hands remained on the handles of my purse as I stood there, staring at this abyss of color that pulled my very soul into it’s layers of pink and indigo, telling me everything and nothing in it’s undeniable beauty.

Mark Rothko, 1903-1970.
No. 14, 1960
Oil on Canvas, 114 1/2″ x 105 5/8″
San Francisco Museum of Fine Art, California
Latvian-Born American Abstract Expressionist (Genius)

“I haven’t seen anyone cry like that in a long time, ” said a man’s voice from over my left shoulder.

“I’m sorry?” I replied with a tone that was both shy and embarrassed.

“Don’t be ashamed, by no means, don’t be that,” he reassured me.

“I’m sorry, I just…” I tried to say.

“You don’t need to say anything. In fact, I insist that you don’t. You just gave me the most beautiful gift I’ve had in years. I come to this museum on a regular basis and this is my favorite work that is housed here. The first time I saw it, I cried just as you are crying now. You don’t have to say a word. I know that you get it just as I got it all those years ago. Now your soul is a part of this work just as mine is.”

“Thank you for deciding to be here,” he said as our eyes met. He was an older gentleman with these hazel green eyes that reminded me of someone I loved but who was no longer a part of me.

He gave my shoulder a gentle squeeze and said, “Now whenever you go back out there and feel the world falling down, just remember today. It’ll be alright because you get it.”

And that was it. I never got his name and he never asked for mine. It was an absolute perfect moment of humanity and I carry him with me still.