Perspective in Paint and Marble

             

            Recently, on a Friday afternoon that felt suspended in time, a friend invited me to The Huntington Library—a place I had always meant to visit but had never gotten around to. From the moment we stepped through the gates, it felt like we had entered a different world. The grounds were touched by that gentle hush that seems to live only in places full of old books, wildflowers, and soft afternoon light. We wandered slowly through the gardens and galleries, letting our conversation drift as naturally as the breeze that rustled through the sycamore trees. I wasn’t expecting to be moved by anything in particular, I just thought it would be a nice afternoon. But art, as I’ve learned, often finds you when you’re least expecting it.

Eventually, we stepped into one of the galleries and came face-to-face with Chimborazo by Frederic Edwin Church. It stopped me in my tracks. The painting was enormous, both in physical size and emotional weight. At first, I just saw the mountain. Towering, snowcapped, unreachable. A symbol of something distant and powerful. But my friend leaned closer and began pointing things out: the ecosystems layered one on top of the other, the almost imperceptible human figures at the base of the slope, the soft glow where the clouds parted to let the light in. I hadn’t seen any of it until he said something.

The more I looked, the more I realized that Church hadn’t just painted a landscape, he had painted a story. A story about observation, patience, humility. The painting asked something of me. It asked me to pause, to pay attention, to look again. And in doing so, it reminded me how easy it is to miss the deeper layers of things, how often we glide over moments, people, even ourselves, without really noticing what’s there. Chimborazo became more than a painting that day. It became a metaphor for what we miss when we rush, and what we find when we stay a little longer.

Later, as we continued exploring, we walked through the sculpture garden. It was there that I saw Puck by Harriet Goodhue Hosmer. The statue was small, tucked away among hedges and sun-dappled paths, and easy to miss if you weren’t paying attention. But something about it drew me in. There was a playfulness in Puck’s expression, but also a quiet defiance, a kind of self-assured mischief that felt deeper than just the character’s charm. It was lighthearted, yes—but not trivial.

Above the statue was a quote from Hosmer herself: “I honor every woman who has strength enough to step outside the beaten path when she feels that her walk lies in another; strength enough to stand up and be laughed at, if necessary.” I read it slowly. Twice. It felt like a challenge and a comfort at the same time. Hosmer, a pioneering female sculptor in the 19th century, had carved out a place for herself in a world that didn’t expect—much less welcome—women to work in marble and bronze. Her quote wasn’t just about ambition. It was about the invisible kind of strength it takes to choose your own direction, even when no one else understands it. Especially when no one else does.

I found myself thinking again about Chimborazo. The connection wasn’t immediate, but it became clearer the longer I stood between those two pieces. Both asked something of the viewer: to look deeper, to see what’s usually overlooked. Chimborazo invited me to find meaning in scale and silence, in the relationship between the tiny and the massive. Puck reminded me that strength doesn’t always look like what we expect. It can be humorous, small, or subtle, and still carry the weight of courage. One was loud in its presence, the other quiet—but both reflected the idea that truth, and strength, often live in places we forget to search.

            That day at The Huntington changed how I think about art—and maybe how I think about life. I realized how much I had been moving through the world without really looking, without letting myself slow down enough to notice what mattered. And I realized how many people, especially women, are like Puck or the human figures in Chimborazo—unnoticed, underestimated, or unseen, but essential to the story. Hosmer’s words stayed with me as I left the garden: the walk that lies “in another” may not always be celebrated, but it is still worth taking. Perhaps the courage to choose your own path, and to help others see what they might have missed, is the most powerful kind of strength there is.