timothy j. lambert

The boss lady has been drinking more than usual looking a little bored lately, so I suggested a visit to the Menil to stimulate her gray matter. My idea was well received by everyone at Hanley Inc., which was great, but The Big H didn't seem all that thrilled when I told her about it. Was she trying to thwart my efforts? She wouldn't nap, which made me worried that she'd later throw a tantrum in the middle of a quiet museum. She didn't want a bottle, and we couldn't go anywhere until she had lunch. Nor would she--woah, nelly! I was hoping she'd poop before we left, so I might not have to deal with that out in public, and she delivered. And delivered. And delivered. Nasty! After pooping half her body weight, she was ravenous and downed her bottle in under a minute. Score! She still wouldn't nap, but two out of three wasn't bad. Actually, one out the three was absolutely foul, but enough about the poop.

Hanley didn't nap in the car like I thought she would, but when we arrived at the Menil she was being very sweet and curious about what we were doing. She maintained the good attitude inside, too, and smiled at the person who greeted us when we entered. We visited the surrealists first, because what baby doesn't like surrealism? Hanley, that's who. She was pretty blase about Rene Magritte, which surprised me, but she showed a passing interest in Max Earnst. She did, however, squeal a bit when she saw a photograph by Andre Kertesz, which pleased me, because I have an affection for Kertesz, as he's one of the first photographers I studied.

When we saw the antiquities, Hanley squealed again at the sight of a torso sculpted from Roman marble from the first century. I was looking at it, trying to figure out what it was that excited her about it, when she pointed to my left and said, "Guhnehblehga!" For those who don't speak infant, she was referring to an urn. She oohed and gurgled about several carved figured and other statuary pieces. But it was a gallery of contemporary and pop art that elicited the best response from Hanley. She grinned at a massive piece by Andy Warhol, Lavender Disaster, which unnerved me slightly, as it features multiple images of an electric chair. But she responded similarly to Jasper Johns, which was comforting. Maybe she understood whimsy after all. A grouping of Mark Rothko paintings caused her eyes to widen and then focus intently. She shook her pink slobber rag at them and then shoved it into her mouth, sucking on the fabric as she stared intently at the colors. I understood and liked that reaction.

We stopped in front of Ulysses by Barnett Newman and I said, "This is one of my favorite paintings." Hanley punched me in the mouth and pointed back at Periscope (Hart Crane) by Jasper Johns. "Everybody's an effing critic," I muttered.