SNOW DAY by George Holmes Copyright. Feb.27 2010
Suddenly he has a sense of freedom. School was canceled. He didn’t have to teach. A snow day. He feels liberated, almost giddy. He decides on the Metropolitan Museum of Art. He loves it, the beauty of the objects, the great spaces, even the crowds do not displease him today. He hires an audio guide. He likes to listen to the voice of Philippe de Montebello. A voice to swoon to he thinks and smiles. Today he concentrates on a large apotheosis scene. How great he thinks to become a god, beautifully formed, muscled, tumbling blond hair, dark eyes alive, exhilarated. Who was the model for this god he wonders? Did the painter have a special affection for him? It is painted with amorous care, lush and rich with reds and golds, blues and whites. Did the model pose like that? Swirling draperies over his loins, a diadem on that magnificent head? He looks at the painting for a long time, absorbed in his thoughts, soothed by that balmy voice, seduced almost, enraptured like St Theresa in ecstasy. Suddenly an irrational force of anger sweeps over him. He feels overpowered, almost out of control. He wants to slash the painting, destroy that thoughtless arrogance so cruelly spread out in front of him .He catches his breath. He knows that he will never be like that god, snow day or not. He will never be surrounded by such beauty, never feel that exhilaration except at second hand. He curses the fates that took away his mother the day he was born and gave him that twisted spine, that hump.
