Now that I’m approaching the end of my time in New Haven, I thought it would be appropriate to have one last long walk through the city. After six hours, four cafes, two museums, and an endless number of quaint little shops, I think I can accept that I’m done with the city. I’ve enjoyed my time here, and I’m happy to leave on such a positive note. The city really is lovely right now, don’t you think?
I had a particularly enlightening trip through the art gallery. Since I was on my own, I skipped around at my leisure, bypassing the old, exquisite paintings because they just don’t captivate me. I veer towards modern things, geometric, logical, occasionally tactile— or, perhaps, at times, the absence of all of that. I sniffed the paintings— it’s this thing I have, knowing at that some infinitely miniscule level I can relate to Rothko or Lichtenstein or Pollack or any of the people behind the art, all through the lingering scent of oil on canvas.
There were a couple of pieces that really hit me, but one in particular was called 28 Years of Bad Luck. It was an assembly of broken mirrors— the astonishing thing, though, was that when I passed by it, I liked what I saw. Guys, I hate my reflection; I have a severe disassociate between that image and how I perceive myself, so to relate to the face passing by was a big thing for me. I’m tempted to go back one last time to see if that feeling lingers.