Being Mrs. Brown

The first book I that I fell in love with was The Hours, written by Michael Cunningham. It opened my mind to so many literary possibilities, and I was fascinated by the deftness with which the separate storylines were eventually connected. Since I first read The Hours, I have been captivated (and, likewise, bored) by endless novels and stories. As with many things in life, though, I find myself inextricably attached to that first truly enlightening literary experience. I have since read the book multiple times and my fascination never seems to lessen.

My favorite character in The Hours is Mrs. Brown, because her lifestyle is one I fear I could easily fall into. Though she was once a young bright intellectual, she is now nothing more than a housewife, adored by her young son and dull husband. Mrs. Brown’s greatest pleasure during the day has nothing to do with her family or home – she lives for the pauses in her routine in which she can slip into the comforts of a good book.

After ruining a birthday cake for her husband, Mrs. Brown grows increasingly upset, wanting nothing more than to escape reality for a while. She leaves her son with a neighbor and a hurried excuse and checks into a hotel room to be alone for a few hours. She desperately wants to read Virginia Woolf’s Mrs. Dalloway, the book having beckoned to her all morning. The idea seems irrational and foolish, yet the guilty pleasure of reading in such a neutral place, away from everything and everyone that oppresses her, makes Mrs. Brown dizzy with excitement.

She is so far away from her life. It was so easy.

It seems, somehow, that she has left her own world and entered the realm of the book. Nothing, of course, could be further from Mrs. Dalloway’s London than this turquoise hotel room, and yet she imagines that Virginia Woolf herself, the drowned woman, the genius, might in death inhabit a place not unlike this one. She laughs, quietly, to herself. Please, God, she says silently, let heaven be something better than a room at the Normandy. Heaven would be better furnished, it would be brighter and grander, but it might in fact contain some measure of this hushed remove, this utter absence inside the continuing world. Having this room to herself seems both prim and whorish. She is safe here. She could do anything she wanted to, anything at all. She is somehow like a newlywed, reclining in her chamber, waiting for … not her husband, or any other man. For someone. For something.

The Hours, p150-151.

Today I was like Mrs. Brown. I was unpredictable, following the urging of my feelings rather than the usual common sense. I dressed exactly how I wanted to, ignoring the nagging warning: but you will look different. In class, I unreservedly voiced my opinions and ideas, emboldened by the professor’s request to not censor ourselves. Leaving the building, I started to walk, with no clear direction. I breathed in the day – still young – and felt thankful for my life. I walked to the MARTA station and, instead of returning home, took the northbound train, once again unsure as to where I would wind up. Finally convincing myself to enjoy the unseasonably-warm weather, I strolled around Midtown, lost in a swirl of thoughts.

Ultimately, I ended up at the High Museum of Art. Like Mrs. Brown’s hotel room, I paid the museum’s overpriced admission in order to escape the outside world. I was curious to see the museum’s new addition as well as the current exhibition. Most of all, though, I wanted to return to a museum I’ve grown up in and – following dozens of visits to museums across Europe – see what the experience felt like. It was a magnificent idea.

I visit museums in order to retreat into my mind, to be silent and alone and let my oft-repressed feelings respond to the artwork that speaks so loudly. Today, I found that perfect retreat. The High was mostly empty, a welcome contrast to the over-crowded museums listed in every London guidebook. The few patrons were predominantly schoolchildren, whose giggles and boisterous whispers I didn’t mind. It was refreshing to be in a room full of curious and excited kids. I wondered why it is necessary to be quiet around artwork in the first place. Besides the students, there were some elderly groups and couples and a handful of people, like me, who came alone and often stood in front of a painting, entranced, until they eventually pulled themselves away and were drawn towards another.

I spent hours at the High visiting familiar paintings and statues, surprised at how often it seemed like I was seeing them for the first time. Other pieces, however, held special memories for me. I could hear my father’s voice, pointing out every possible detail and symbol in a complex painting, and still remembered the childhood fear that I could never retain so much information as he did.

Unsystematically wandering from room to room, I loved the fact that I could visit the museum on a random afternoon, accompanied only by the young, the old, and a few kindred spirits. Enjoy this while you can, I lectured myself, bitterly aware of the fact that, sooner or later, responsibilities will continuously enter my life. Whether a job, a death, a birth, a marriage, a divorce, a home, a family, a reputation, or a promise, the responsibilities will pile up year after year, until their collective pressure will weigh down so heavily on me that I will eventually forget the days that I would escape to the museum, forget the feeling of freedom which I treasured.

But for now I am a bright college student, like a young Mrs. Brown, who wants nothing more than to be enveloped by a good book. My responsibilities are limited, and I am as independent as I ever will be. I am a woman, a daughter, a friend and a dreamer. I am unattached, uncertain, inspired, excited, frightened, adventurous, teachable, wise, and growing. I am free.