Je suis belle (I am beautiful ) by Auguste Rodin, 1882

Ready. Set. Go.

Vehicles take off, the navigator gives details from the back seat. We find the street―no parking. We find the garage―no parking. We disappear three levels under ground in our search for the elusive collection of beauties. Following polished signs toward daylight the revolving door spits us out into the granite plaza with music playing from the potted plants and people taking smoke-breaks.

Inside the museum we synchronize our watches and disperse with another map in hand. A hushed response from a serious art lover directs our search to the European art section. Scurrying from the red elevators to the blue elevators and staring at the wrong set of doors delay our discovery as precious minutes roll away along the muted corridors hiding behind the heels of uniformed volunteers who look unhappy.

We find it.

We hesitate for a moment―stuck in the center between three giant photographs.

To the left―dust, desert, desolation. Arizona or New Mexico reminds me of Namibia and fresh air.

In front―a photograph taken inside the Berlin Museum of visitors looking at a classical Greek structure. We transcend into shared recollections of the Seine in Paris over looking the Eiffel Tower. We hear German seep from this moment caught in time continents away, dripping from the frame and run down onto the wooden floor beneath us. We turn clockwise to see red brick buildings soften the mechanical mirrored monuments of a parking lot in Dallas. A sudden burst of children’s voices chase us out the room stumbling down some stairs, to land among bizarre interior exhibitions.

A clattering of golden colors in velvet, middle age candle stands and Japanese vases confuse my art chronology as I stagger ahead in this room, trying to regain my focus. I look down at the plastic brim around the ancient furniture, careful not to touch anything lest I induce a reprimand from the art police and notice a lump of bronze mistaking it for an elaborate door stop. This Frenchman’s handiwork catches me unaware. Hidden behind so much clutter I almost missed it.

Two figures. Male and female. A visual of unexpressionable approval.

Exaltation. His robust back muscles strain as he holds this delicate bundle of woman against his chest.

Did he just receive her from God? Is he offering her back to Him?

In his public display of unashamed adoration his strong arms provide security and protection to all she represents in his life. He carries her livelihood, her fears, her body, her heart. Her head turned to the right with her left cheek almost touching his lips. She feels completely accepted, appreciated, loved in all her vulnerability. Like a little bird nestled beneath wings, still, kept high away from dangers, she lies hunched on his torso in safe warmth.

All chattering cease. The race ends. I understand.

I am beautiful and wonderfully made.