I'm feeling melancholy today, and I have nothing at all to complain about which only makes it worse. So, I started writing in my little journal about all the things that have ever made me happy, all in a futile attempt to get back that feeling without doing any of the work to deserve it.

One of those happy memories involves the painting above. A few years ago, Rich and I spent a lovely afternoon at the DIA, and we noticed this fantastic piece tucked in a corner of the European Masters room. It looked bereft and humble, almost as if it was embarrassed to be sharing space with the Rembrandts and Renoirs. It seemed to know that hundreds of people passed it daily, perhaps giving is a passing glance but never their full attention.

We must have spent a half-hour staring at that painting, and the rest of the afternoon talking about how much we loved it. I'm sure I spent ten minutes alone discussing the dirt and scuff marks on the bottom of that interior door and how lifelike it was in its dereliction. Rich was impressed with the paintings within the painting, and they way the light from the window lit upon the cold, hard floor infusing a drab and depressing existence with its only source of life.

About a year later, Rich sent me this article about Michael Palin's 20-year obsession with Hammershoi; accompanying the article was our painting. We both laughed, blaming our 20-year obsession with Monty Python for somehow leading us to give a lonely painting a second glance.

This summer, Rich and I went back to the DIA and discovered that Hammershoi was a victim of the DIA's ongoing renovation project and ever-shrinking European collection. It's been relegated to wherever it is that art goes to die. Inexplicably, this is still taking up valuable wall space. I'll take Danish realism over ironic pop-solipsism any day.