The thing about the Barnes, the defining story above and beyond anything else about the place, is its bizarre layout. Mr. Barnes left his art collection to the city of Philadelphia on the condition that it remain in exactly the state that he left it – display arrangement, building, wall colors… everything. He had some very firm beliefs on the best way to display art, beliefs that he executed in his own home. It’s nothing that hasn’t been seen before, but he was certain that his preferred method was the optimal way to experience art. Like so many rich men before him, he decided to enforce his will through militant benevolence, tying his bequest to his philosophy of curation.

What does that have to do with the museum I visited and it’s layout? So, excising a tale of red tape out, what you should know is that the specific language of the bequest meant that the collection couldn’t be moved, yet the house was in the middle of (relative) nowhere and (natch) succumbing to the passage of time. Huge expenditures of bureauticatrons (the god-particle of all bureaucracies) yielded a compromise wherein a new building would be constructed but, within it, exact replicas of the rooms of Barnes’ house would be created – size, color, ornaments, all of it. It makes for a queer experience, going into a beautiful, modern(-ish) museum in downtown Philadelphia, only to be presented with a labyrinthine recreation of a restored arboretum from the early 20th century. Compounding the strangeness of the experience is Barnes’ curation philosophy, which eschews any sort of signage except for the artist’s last name demurely placarded within the frame of the painting or display stand as appropriate. You are otherwise on your own.

Here’s the thing, though – for all of its opaque practices the Barnes is an absolute must-see if you are a fan of Impressionist or post-Impressionist art. Every luminary of the period is well-represented, as well as dozens of minor but notable figures. From Renoir to Monet, Van Gogh to Seurat and all points in between (har har) it is a truly astonishing collection gathered by an obsessive mind.

Honestly, even providing a representative sample is difficult – maybe my brain just isn’t programmed properly but I’ve been overwhelmed by the walls of paintings during both of my visits. It really is astounding how this tucked away little museum holds such vast treasure.

Thanks in large part to these racquetball blog posts [look, it was a different blog and a different time; I wrote about learning to play racquetball -ed.], Terry (Lisa’s father) has expressed an interest in playing together when he came out to help with Lisa’s chemo recovery. “How nice,” thought I, “a little guy bonding with my quasi-kinda-father-in-law. Surely great strides in mutual understanding and respect will result from this adventure. Why, in the afterglow of the manly rites of physical contest, we might just come to see one another as family!”

History is rife with stories of fathers who disapprove of their daughters’ choice of mate. They’ve imprisoned the daughters, smothered them, had the men assassinated or transported to Australia… but never, NEVER, has a father tried to cause a fatal brain hemorrhage in the erstwhile boyfriend with a well-placed racquetball.

UNTIL NOW.

Ok, maybe it wasn’t that bad.

We went to Bally’s and hit a few warm up shots, then I graciously (graciously!) allowed him to serve. Well. His first few hits were no great shakes, and in fairly short order I was up by a handful of points and I was starting to go easy on my serve; no reason to embarrass the guy, I figure. Well well well well well… turns out, he just had to get adjusted to the difference in equipment between racquetball (with which he has minimal experience) and squash (which he has played twice a week for 30 years). Even as he still missed shots, it became clear that he had no problems at all getting to the ball, nor with hitting wickedly-difficult-to-return shots of his own. He kept the score within four or so as we climbed up towards 15.

Then WHAM! An explosive “pop” sound in my ear; my eyes start spiraling, full-on cartoon style. I drop to the floor, trying hard not to frighten nearby children with the classic Eastern European blasphemies that I’m rightly famous for. I shake it off and, although I still can’t hear out of that ear and my equilibrium is roughly the same as a 250-pound infant’s, I finish out the first game, 15-11 or so. We pause for water, then he serves up the second game. By now, he’s really getting his sea legs under him (and, of course, blood is slowly filling my eye sockets, making it difficult to see). The score stays closer, although I lead by a point or two for most of it, but around the 11-point mark he takes control and closes me out 15-12.

Despite my survival instincts screaming at me to hide in a tree somewhere, we will play again on Saturday. I still can’t hear properly out of my right ear. Pray for me.

[Terry passed away early on Friday, April 4th. He went out as close to how he wanted to as any person ever gets to, for which we are grateful. And for the record, while we never played racquetball again as stipulated in my life insurance policy, we got on quite well.

George Eliot tells us that “our dead are never dead to us until we have forgotten them.” By that measure he’ll be sticking around for a long, long time.]