My schedule gave me a spare hour and a half between meetings and I
decided to go to one of the world's great art galleries, the Art
Institute of Chicago. But I got held up and then losing my sense of
direction completely ended up walking all the way round the block (the
entrance I wanted to use is closed because there's a lot of building
work going on), so I'm rushing up the front steps with barely
twenty-five minutes left.
I buy my ticket and present it to
the lady in uniform. With so little time I know exactly what I want to
see: "Could you tell me where the Mary Cassatts are please?" She looks
at me and at the bag I'm carrying. We both look at the cloakroom where
there is a queue of people. She says quietly "You'd better leave that
behind my desk and come through." It turns out that what I want is
across the far side of the building, and getting there (partly because
of the building work) involves several tricky turns and changes of
level. But her instructions are clear and five minutes later I am
standing in front of the painting I particularly want to see.
I know there is something sentimental about this and I don't care. In a foreign country, four thousand miles away from our own children, who are all well past the stage of needing to be bathed, I look at this image of love and innocence until it begins to blur a little. The gallery is closing, and more slowly now I retrace my steps. I pick up my bag from the lady at the gate, and thank her, but my throat feels tight and the voice unusually high-pitched. I go out into the Chicago sunshine, light-headed with a sense of release.
