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Beth Ann Bayus reflects on visits to the Detroit Institute of Arts.

I am by no means an artist. I enjoy art and have definite tastes in what I like and don’t like (more so what I don’t like), but the gene for rendering beauty out of nothing didn’t swim into my pool. (It did, however take a dive into my nephew’s deep end, as evidenced by his work

Genetic defect not withstanding, I do have fond memories of my trips downtown to the Detroit Institute of Art with my mother when I just a preschooler. As the youngest of seven from a mother prone to blood clots, I was often taken in tow on her doctor visits in the city, and afterwards (probably as retribution for having endured waiting room abandonment), she’d take me to the DIA to wander among the treasures. Often pretending that I was walking through my own private, well-appointed home, I’d imagine what it would be like to live surrounded by such beautiful things every day. I’ll never forget the dusty sunlight beams that streamed down as we would enter the grand hall housing Diego Rivera’s Detroit Industry mural. It was like coming out of church on a bright Sunday morning. Standing there, blinking, I had the feeling I’d just been in the presence of greatness.

And while I was pregnant, I often daydreamed about the lazy afternoons I’d spend taking my own child by the hand to gaze into the mummy’s case (that I was certain smelled like an old book inside) or touch the gilded frame of an oil painting crackled ancient with time.

Reality hasn’t disappointed. Trips to the DIA with my daughter are so hallowed that we even have a “museum stroller” designated solely for our special visits. It bears the little tin admission button of The Rodin Museum in Paris right beside those we’ve collected from our many DIA visits, the routine of which has now become a comfortable habit. Once inside, we quickly move to find the Van Gogh portrait whose thick, crusty brush strokes magically disappear as you back away from it, and then move on to find the painting of the little Spanish price, dressed in burgundy velvet with a bird in one hand and a rattle in the other. And then perhaps on to the sarcophagus or the bright Mexican mosaic mural on the upper floors. Or sometimes we go straight to see the big brown bell that hangs in the Kresge Court, hoping someday, it may actually ring.

Regardless of our path, we usually end up at the museum store, sometimes to buy, but mostly to browse the book section, which is always well-stocked with a great selection of children’s art books. Our last acquisition, “When Pigasso met Mootisse” by Nina Laden was a bit garish for my taste, (again, I know what I don’t like), but my daughter kept picking it up off the shelf, so it inevitably ended up in our home library. A study of two famous artists caught in the same period of time, the book compares and contrasts their unique styles in a storyline even the youngest budding artist will appreciate. (Although, I admit, I can’t bring myself to call Picasso “Pigasso” or Matisse “Mootisse” when reading it aloud. Cute for a kid, but irritating to my adult ear.)

Other works from the DIA store that my daughter has enjoyed are a series of board books called “Mini Masters” by Julie Merberg and Suzanne Bober, which feature short rhymes describing the artwork reproduced on the opposite page. We especially like the “Dancing with Degas” book which, with lines like, “They step and leap, twist and twirl, as silky tutus swish and swirl,” immerses young readers in the midst of Degas’ theatrical world. We also use the books in this series to play “Find The Signature,” a game we made up in which my daughter searches for the artists’ signatures on the paintings – - sort of an artistic “Where’s Waldo?”

Whatever games spill from these or other water-colored art book pages, the idea isn’t to make my daughter an art critic or the next Monet, but rather, to let her know that somewhere deep within everyone (herself included) is the ability to make beauty out of nothing. And I guess, perhaps, that does make us all artists after all.

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