How to go to the National Gallery of Art

a walkthrough tutorial.

Every Monday for about three years, I used to get on the Washington DC Metro and take the train down to the strip of museums along the National Mall. Then I’d hop off at the Archives/Navy Memorial stop, cross Pennsylvania Avenue and go into the National Gallery of Art. Maybe I missed the occasional Monday but I went to the National Gallery at least four times a month. Some months I was in there a dozen times.

I went to the Gallery so much because I was in my mid-twenties and I was trying to teach myself how to write. I had — and still have — this rather outdated idea that good art and music can teach you more about writing well than any MFA program can.¹ I usually went on Mondays or Sunday afternoons because that’s when the National Gallery is largely empty of visitors.

Also, the National Gallery is free. And I had no money back then. A lot of the paintings change in the place but they keep most of the same things up. The Van Goghs are always up and so are the Monets. But certain corners of those rooms are invariably crowded with tourists in New Balance sneakers rushing up to the water lillies, taking pictures on their phones and then rushing out.

That, of course, is not how you should go to the National Gallery. They have the viewing couches there for a reason. So when I go, I think always about the museum layout in relation to the Cezanne room, which is behind the Monets. I always know I’ll spend the most time on that couch. But you can’t start with Cezanne or Monet, it’s too much too early. You have to build to it.

You start in the sculpture room — here you can hear a faint rattling of plates in the kitchen and the conversations of people entering and the large groups talking across themselves. You go over to Morning, by Rodin. Look at the soft lines, how her hand lifts her hair.

Her palm on the soft flesh of her neck. Look at how the shadow falls — not at her feet but at her knees. She’s got this hair like a mane. It’s something, this one.

Then to Eve. Look at this, this is showing not telling — the shame of her burning her face into the crook of her arm. Her fingers clawing at her sides, as if she’s trying to hide inside herself. It’s solid except the fingertips of her left hand, gently flicked out into the world.

Then through the cafe. Skip the American furniture and museum shop. We’re going to Dali’s The Last Supper. This is a weird one, even for Dali.² Look at all the boats in the background, as if the disciples just arrived here. Look at the light coming through the reflection of Jesus’ glass. The painting is built around that — you can build a story around sunlight through a glass too. Raymond Carver did it in What We Talk About When we Talk About Love.

We keep moving, though. You go in the garden. This is the best place to read or write in the museum. The sound of the conversations and how the plants dampen them. I cured a hangover one Sunday by sitting here for a whole afternoon and reading Breakfast at Tiffanys.

You have to go to the busy corner of the Monet room. It’s crowded and you can’t really lose yourself. I like to put on something overpoweringly beautiful, like Motzart’s Serenade in B Minor. Then look at the woman and children coming down in Artist’s Garden, how the flowers dominate the painting but everything happens under the sky and the few meaningless clouds in them. Monet didn’t paint the clouds here. That’s just empty canvas.

Then, briefly, move over to Woman With a Parasail. Different clouds, they’re painted here. More aggressive. Look at the wind. It’s in the clouds and the swaying flowers and the veil blown across the woman’s face.

The second Monet room is better — Ships Riding on the Sienne. Look at the waves, the puddles of color. I love this one, you can almost smell it — the cool heart of the day on the water. And nobody really notices this one, so you can stand here and lose yourself in it for a long time, unbothered.

Then through the next room, there’s a nice Seurat to your left.