Life imitating art

We arrived at The Clark Art Institute before the storm and spent the night in Lenox. I hadn’t been to the museum in forty years and was stunned to walk into the first room and see a collection of Winslow Homer paintings. They felt like old friends.

Luckily by spending the night at the Massachusetts-New York line, we didn’t have far to drive in the morning, the day of the party in Schenectady, because the conditions were awful and I mean treacherous.

The celebration was lovely mostly because of who my mother in law is — kind, tolerant, even-keeled, well-read, and smart as a whip. How lucky am I? is a thought I had all afternoon. We hadn’t seen some of her grandchildren in many years, so that was fun. (We’re a blended family, in case you’re wondering). This one at WashU, that one at Spotify. Another coaching track at Babson, another doing accounting for a PR firm. I’m officially at the age where someone who is 27 looks 19 to me.

We opted to head home after the luncheon and it was fine until around Chicopee when it started snowing hard.

I was born in Pittsfield, left at age two, moved back when I was ten, moved to Hancock when I was seventeen, left at eighteen, moved back to Pittsfield and then Lenox in my twenties. It was nostalgic and a little weird but I can’t quite say why yet. To drive from Williamstown down to Lenox was to hit all those points.

Just learned about the source of the Clark family wealth and I’ll share tomorrow but here’s a hint: it’s sewing related. I did not know that on Friday as I photographed one painting after another that featured fiber work.

Mushroom stew in progress. Soon to have dumplings!