Don't Mess with This Old Dame

What I did for the sake of a chicken sandwich at America's least known great art museum.

A red hat inspires my inner badass. No, I didn’t wear my Pilates outfit to the museum.

I used to think of Pasadena, California as the setting of a Jan and Dean song from 1964, in which a sweet old dear tears up the streets in a shiny, red hot rod. I can hear the refrain in my head: Go, granny, go, granny, go, granny, go!

Pasadena didn’t sound like my kind of place. I pictured broad lawns lined with prim-and-proper white gardenias like the ones the oldster grew as cover for her inner scamp. Then my husband and I started planning the Great American Art Road Trip from Toronto to California and back (final tally: 49 museums in five weeks). Wonder of wonders, Pasadena is home to the Norton Simon Museum, a treasure trove that owes its existence to one man’s taste, ambition and head-spinning wealth.

Norton Simon, who died in 1993, began collecting in 1954, when high rollers could still acquire Old Masters of the first rank. He knew what he liked and insisted on the best. Acquiring a Raphael wasn’t enough; he had to know where his Raphael ranked among the world’s top five. His legacy, according to NPR, “just might be America’s least known great museum.” That settled it. Norton Simon Museum, here we come!

We arrived to find the parking lot clogged with circling cars and uniformed attendants whose sole function appeared to be protecting spaces reserved for staff. You might as well have waved a carving knife at a Picasso as try to pull into one of those. My husband rolled down his window and asked the closest keeper of the spaces, “Where can we park?” A forceful honk elicited the suggestion that we might try our chances on the street. And it was there on Colorado Boulevard, scene of the little old lady’s joy rides, that we finally got lucky. A quick bite of lunch and we’d be ready to immerse ourselves in art.

By this time it was pushing 2:30, the witching hour at cafés in smaller museums. Not about to make do with yet another chocolate bar from the gift shop, we dashed into a nearby supermarket for a couple of hearty sandwiches. Surely the Norton Simon had a bench somewhere on the grounds? Not that we could see. But it did have a sunny interior courtyard where, in a scene worthy of Renoir, happy art lovers were noshing away and a sun-dappled table seemed to be waiting just for us.

Norton Simon chose only the best, as with this Matisse.

We had barely unwrapped our sandwiches when a young staffer appeared, all aflutter. No outside food allowed. No exceptions. Rules are rules. Everyone else had patronized the café. Who could have guessed it was open after all?

My husband and I look like mild-mannered people of a certain age. We seldom go anywhere unhatted. We speak in complete sentences, turn off our cell phones at the movies, always tip the chambermaid and the delivery guy. But the older we get, the less patience we have with shoddy customer service and hide-bound procedures. There are are times for decorum and times to let the indignation rip.

“You can’t do this to us!” I told the young staffer. “We’ve driven all the way from Canada to see this museum. We’re on an art road trip and we thought today would be a highlight. But ever since we got here we’ve been told what we cannot do.” Out came the tale of the parking lot, the hunger pangs, the contraband lunch as a substitute for the officially sanctioned one we were all but certain we had missed. If I’d had a cane, I would have thumped it. The staffer looked almost young enough to be my granddaughter. I appealed to her better nature: “We’ll be out of your hair in no time. How long can it take to eat a sandwich?”

As she scurried away, I took a leisurely bite of my grilled chicken/avocado sandwich. And a fine sandwich it was. In a moment of shining clarity, I figured I could polish off most of it before being given the boot.

To look at Gustave Courbet’s still life is to feel every crevice of the fruits in your hand.

Her boss arrived soon enough. In his take-charge years, he projected long experience with scofflaws like my husband and me. I detected the resolve to march us out the door if we continued to make trouble. Terribly sorry, he said. But we would have to understand: The museum has a contract with a food supplier. Rules are rules. No exceptions. While he delivered the spiel, I savored a few more bites, stopping just long enough to repeat my sorry tale and work up to a crescendo of frustration: “We’re on an art road trip from Toronto. We’ve been to more than 20 museums. And nowhere on this journey have we felt so unwelcome as we have today at the Norton Simon, from the moment we drove into the parking lot.”

I have to give the boss credit: He listened. He apologized for the sorry first impression. Then he made us a deal: If we put away our lunch, he’d reimburse our admission fees. I could live with that. Into the closest trash bin went the last of my sandwich—a nubbin of roll with half an arugula leaf and a shred of grilled chicken. Bring on Norton Simon’s masterpieces!

I tip my big red hat to the knowing eye of Norton Simon. Picture for picture, brushstroke for brushstroke, he assembled one of the most thrilling collections we’ve explored in more than 40 years of art tourism. His aim was not to fill slots in the art hit parade but to convey the shining essence of the artists he most esteemed—the Manetness of Manet, the Degasness of Degas, the Rembrandtness of Rembrandt.

My favorite Norton Simon Rembrandt might be this self-portrait, aflame with vitality and astonishment.

It’s not for transcendent works of art that I’ll remember our trip to Pasadena. In the courtyard at the museum, I realized I had come of age. My younger self would have tossed her offending sandwich in the trash, then let resentment poison the day. She would not have dared to flout the rules, much less make a scene in a temple of culture. I’m beyond that now. I’ve reached the age when women are invisible. About time I claimed the reward: freedom to speak my mind and be heard. I rather liked the role of indignant old dame from Toronto. She’s part of the Ronaness of Rona. Go, granny, go!

If you enjoyed this post, you’ll like “Still Married after 53 Years.” The art road trip was my husband’s brain wave, and he blogged about it here. No photos, I’m afraid, but all the details on where we went and what we discovered there.

And now, my friends, the floor is open. When did you take a stand against the Powers That Be? How did the experience change you? Are you becoming more mouthy with age? I’d love to hear from you. And you, I’ve noticed, get a kick out of hearing from one another.