"Where any set of men, scattered over distant nations, maintain a close society or communication together, they acquire a similitude of manners, and have but little in common with the nations amongst whom they live. Thus the Jews in Europe, and the Amenians in the east, have a peculiar character..." ~Hume



This afternoon, my roommates and I and another friend blew off our responsibilities and giggled, perused my favorite art gallery--the Freer/Sackler gallery, and listened to a man fiddle.


The art of Whistler and Dewing, in particular, evinces a highly romanticized view of women and art. And yet somehow, I always let it convince me. I may be the most feminist conservative I know. Nothing irks me more than a dig about women pregnant and barefoot. If this ever happens to me, I pray Aristotle will be in my hands while I'm stirring the stew. Perhaps the fear that my romantic picture is really unfinished in the corner, leading to an unraveling of all of my plans, is what motivates me. Perhaps it is my vague hope that I've chosen the right influences on me in my friendships, and that I'll continue to choose, or be blessed with, such influences. Perhaps I'd just like to enjoy this moment in the field, with my art, this moment with my kindred spirits in white dresses, without longing for something that isn't.

Love is a grace and love is concrete. The desire for an abstraction, and the grasping after that abstraction seems to be two dangerous roots. And yet wishing isn't wrong as far as I can tell (or see in Aristotle). This romantic dreaming seems to be a problem when it leads us away from the things of this world, and not when it leads us to them.