Notes from the East Wing

The museum opens at ten. I arrive at nine-forty to be first, and I am first, and I stand at the door with my hands folded while the guard unlocks it. We nod at each other like men who have been through something.

Room fourteen, in the East Wing, has a gilt frame on an easel. In the frame is a single banana, painted with the gravity of an admiral's portrait.

I stood in front of it for forty minutes. A school group came and went, and a man asked whether I was all right. I was fine. I had thoughts about the brushwork, and I am still sharing them. Cultural Enrichment.

Lunch was at a small place with white tablecloths and a chalkboard menu nobody could read. The special arrived on a plate the size of a hubcap: one pea, centered. I examined it under a magnifying glass, as one does. The portion was appropriate. The chef will be receiving notes. Fine Dining.

In the evening I read chapter one again, because I had not given it my full attention the first four times. Then I read the footnotes, the acknowledgements and the little paragraph at the back about the typeface. Required Reading.

Before bed I gave a short recital on the accordion for an audience of one lamp. I played three songs, all waltzes. Requests were considered. Musical Interlude.

These shirts are for art lovers, book clubs and food critics, and for anyone who has stood in front of a painting a little longer than strictly necessary.

W. Marsh, Chair