For four years, the Menil Collection in Houston was more than just an art institution; it was the backdrop to a daily ritual. Walking my dog, Sally, twice a day transformed me into a familiar, yet unnoticed, part of the urban landscape. This invisibility, however, granted a unique perspective, allowing me to observe the myriad of human and animal lives unfolding around this cultural hub.
My early days in a leaning garage apartment on Graustark and Alabama offered a route past the University of St. Thomas. I’d catch glimpses of Philip Johnson’s distinctive bisected dome, the university chapel, and pass a house where nuns, clad in brown wimples, shared their space with a dog named Bethlehem. The journey continued towards the Rothko Chapel, a building whose austere exterior—reminiscent of a junior high school—belied the vast, otherworldly interior within, much like Doctor Who’s TARDIS.
The regulars on my route painted a vivid picture of the community. There was the septuagenarian with her obese, leash-less dog, George W. Bush, who would pant and collapse after a short distance. Her constant companion was a portable radio tuned to NPR, and she was never short of a scathing remark, delivered in a cigarette-ravaged rasp. Then there was the slow-motion runner, a man in his late fifties, overweight but clad in expensive technical gear. He’d circle the Menil at a glacial pace, offering muttered curses to anyone who dared cross his path. An elderly woman, a testament to significant weight loss, power-walked around the museum, her gnarled legs, adorned with extra skin, a trophy of her journey.
Evenings brought couples engaged in public displays of affection on the lawn, while mornings revealed those who had found solace or slumber beneath the trees. Children swung joyfully from the branches of the grand central live oak, their parents capturing the moments, while museumgoers debated the merits of Warhol and Magritte, or the perceived simplicity of a Twombly masterpiece. Amidst this tapestry of human activity, I once discovered a vial of crack cocaine, a small, illicit object that, for a month, resided in my desk drawer, a tangible symbol of unexpected danger and excitement.
Later, living near W. Main, a tree-lined path led directly to Renzo Piano’s Menil building, a masterpiece of glass and jutting fins, a design infused with nautical elements, a subtle nod to the architect’s love for boating. Mornings saw school buses disgorge restless children, ushered along by harried chaperones. Evenings often featured concerts in the museum’s front hall, and I’d stand on the sidewalk, captivated by the silent choreography of string quartets, their bows dancing through the air. I also found myself drawn to the audience members, peering at them as if observing a unique exhibit in a gallery for the well-dressed.
During these walks, I’d often be accompanied by women I was dating or friends visiting Houston. The experience served as a litmus test: did they “get” this place, this unique blend of art, nature, and the everyday? I miss that particular rhythm of life.
Even now, walking Sally, now 14 and moving slowly, through the colder climes of Chicago, I find myself comparing the environments. The efficient, workman-like structures of Chicago, where lives are often warehoused, lack the surrealist allure of the Menil. While the Blackhawks’ goals might elicit roars from apartments in the spring, it doesn’t quite match the thrill of experiencing Cy Twombly’s immense Untitled (Say Goodbye, Catullus, to the Shores of Asia Minor).
The landscape of my past routine has also shifted. The nuns have moved, separating Sally and Bethlehem from their pecan-sniffing companionship. The temporary outdoor sculpture that infamously crushed a VW Jetta is long gone, a stark reminder of how art, intended for appreciation, can inadvertently impact everyday lives.
When the woman I am now married to first visited Houston, my excitement was palpable. The night before her noon arrival, I found myself walking Sally at 4 a.m., the hum of Hwy 59 a constant presence, accompanied by the song of an unfamiliar bird. I yearned to share this discovery, this place that, after years of familiarity, still offered new wonders. I wanted her, a Chicago native whose family roots were firmly planted in the city, to understand the profound beauty of being surrounded by massive trees, gangly herons, and the pale neon glow of a Dan Flavin installation in the early morning hours. My daily chore around the ineffable was an experience I desperately wanted her to share, to be as overawed as I was.
Then, shattering the pre-dawn reverie, a man on a BMX bike, entirely devoid of pants, yelled, “Does that dog bite?” as he sped past, his bare posterior illuminated by the 4 a.m. moonlight. It is this kind of unexpected, wild encounter that I find myself missing.
