I have a lunch appointment in Baltimore. I take an early flight to D.C. and get into the city (one of America’s greatest) three hours before my appointment.
I go directly to the National Gallery of Art. Just before I enter the main exhibition gallery, I see a room full of George Bellows’s work. I love George Bellows. In the center of the room is a comfortable couch. I sit in front of “New York,” a big, energetic painting of what looks like downtown on a gray day (like today) in 1911. In the foreground, a throng of pedestrians, walking in that bent-forward way New Yorkers have. In the center, trucks and horse-drawn wagons and buses and cars. In the background, a park — and then those tall, tired buildings.
I sit there very happily for 20 minutes. In a little while, I’ll be on the train heading north to my meeting. For the moment, I’m richer than Bill Gates. I’ve stolen an hour of my precious life’s time. It’s all mine.
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