I think an art museum is like a kind of portal that transports our minds. For a while, we are taken out of our own bodies and our own world, into the artist’s—van Gogh’s, or Kandinsky’s, or Degas’. We see a world that they saw, along with all the glamour or distortion that their minds might have imagined; and we see it as our reality. And in those few moments, as we try to touch our minds to the artists’—we are happy, angry, puzzled, sad…  or just still: quietly drinking in all the colors and emotions of that strange world. We stand quiet and stare, to burn it into memory so we can bring it back with us; ready to be re-lived again when desired, even if only in our minds.