A couple of days after I took this photo I stood in his place over the balcony. I expected to be overwhelmed by a large expansive view of the water but instead was surprised and initially disappointed. The view was first stunted by a floor to ceiling screen and the view of the pool was short. The trees beyond the pool created a visual barrier, their trunks dotted with blurs of cars passing by on the road behind them.
The longer I stood there however, the more intimate the experience became. I noticed that the screen, initially daunting in its scope and distortion of light, actually seemed to move like smoke as reflections from the pool rose up its mesh and released onto the ceiling. Then I noticed the water moving in sections, creating rippled glitter that led to the trees. What first stunted my view actually held me inside that moment, creating a soft closeness. I was brought back to the museum. I noticed the subtle variations and profound details around me: the whir of the airplane movie and air conditioning ducts, the movement of footsteps in gallery spaces behind me. I saw the light from the window hit the two side walls and create a Y, the tip of the letter pointing in my direction.
I thought I wanted this great architectural expanse to open up to me, giving a view of something equally grand outside the museum. Instead, it brought my view full circle in one of the most peaceful journeys I’ve had. I was not entertained, I was allowed to be quiet.