Why Free Museums Matter

There’s an exhibition catalog on my bookshelf that catches my eye whenever I swivel in my chair. On its cover is the Waterloo Bridge, cloaked in fog, sunlight forging a path through and unrolling a white path on the water below. Since 2004, I’ve carried it with me from one apartment to the next, from Detroit to Chicago to New York. My grandmother had taken me to an exhibition at the Art Gallery of Ontario, a retrospective that pulled works by Turner, Whistler, and Monet into conversation.

I’d stood slack-jawed in front of the painting. It glowed like someone had struck a match inside of it. It invited me to leave my bag on the floor and walk straight into the canvas. I could almost feel the mist pruning my cheeks. The painting transported me.