Light on Water

Last Updated on April 7, 2026

I went to the De Young Museum today to see Monet & Venice.

My friend and I had planned to get there early. It’s spring break for lots of folks this week, so it was packed. At first I felt that familiar low-grade frustration — I wish all these people weren’t here — and then I caught myself. Who am I to want that? This is what it looks like when people show up for art.

So I shifted.

I started moving the way I always do in museums — skipping the prescribed route, drifting toward whatever painting no one else was standing in front of at that moment. I’d find a bench and just sit with the whole room: the paintings, the people, the light, the snippets of conversation in different languages. We were all there together — our cohort, our 11 AM ticket time — people from all over the world, moving through these gallery spaces, all of us somehow in relationship with paintings made in the late 1800s and early 1900s.

The exhibit was beautifully curated. It wasn’t just Monet — there were paintings by other artists who were drawn to Venice around the same time, contemporaries and friends of his, which gave such a rich sense of why this city called to so many people. I loved the moments where the exhibit pulled back the curtain on Monet’s inner life. He questioned himself. He struggled. He apparently wondered whether he should even attempt Venice at all — so many artists had already painted it, so many people were enchanted by it. Should I even try?

I love hearing about other people’s insecurities. I have a lot of my own, and people aren’t always forthcoming about theirs. There’s something so connecting about it — not judging someone for their doubt, but recognizing yourself in it. I’d rather hear about someone’s uncertainty any day over bravado or false confidence. Moving through insecurity is underrated as a topic. It deserves more airtime.

And then there were the water paintings. The atmospheric ones — light on the lagoon, the sun low in the sky, color dissolving into color. Those are the ones I kept coming back to. Because even though I’ve never been to Venice — I felt like I had seen these scenes. Right outside my door. The light on San Pablo Bay at sunrise. The moon coming up over the water. Monet was painting Venice in 1908 and somehow he was also painting the view from my neighborhood in San Rafael. That’s the thing about the best art: it closes distances that should feel uncloseable.

The water lilies. They were my favorites — absolutely incredible. Knowing that he questioned those too — that he nearly cancelled a show of them — it blows my mind that we almost didn’t get to see them. That the doubt was there, and the work still happened anyway.

I found myself thinking about the elaborate, ornate gold frames — wondering whether Monet would have chosen them. I used to work in custom framing, so these are the things I notice. The curation of an exhibit is a set of choices, and I have a lot of respect for the people who make those choices well.

I remembered a viola performance by Christen Lien in the courtyard at the Legion of Honor, during an exhibit called Impressionists on the Water in the fall of 2013. She played a live response to the paintings, and it was one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever witnessed — art responding to art, in real time. She created an impressionistic composition live performance exploring how water affects our lives. I love her music so much. Today brought the soundscape of that afternoon 13 years ago back.

Before we left, my friend and I went into the gift shop — as you do — and we each bought a coffee mug. Mine has the water lilies on it. I absolutely do not need another coffee mug, but we wanted to “cheers” and think of the day and each other while having tea or coffee.

The woman at the gift shop register told me I could apply the exhibit tickets towards a membership. My friend had paid $40 each for our exhibit tickets. The artist membership is $99 a year. No proof of being an artist required. So I paid $19 more for a full year’s membership, got a 10% discount on the mug, and walked out feeling like I’d won something.

One of my favorite moments was in the galleries, sitting on a bench, watching people go quiet in front of a painting. Watching my friend get teary because she loves Venice. Deciding to widen my view of art to include all of it — the crowds and the chaos and the wonder — and just be grateful that any of this exists.

I’m so grateful for artists who take the time to metabolize life in this way — people who feel the weight of being alive so deeply that they have no choice but to make something of it. And I’m equally grateful for all of us who show up to witness it.

I always remember this quote from Toni Morrison’s Sula regarding artistic expression: “Had she paints, or clay, or knew the discipline of the dance, or strings; had she anything to engage her tremendous curiosity and her gift for metaphor, she might have exchanged the restlessness and preoccupation with whim for an activity that provided her with all she yearned for. And like any artist with no art form, she became dangerous”.