Washington's Museums: Worth the Price of Admission?

You don't wish bad on anybody, but the nephew did die without heirs, which was great for the United States of America. The money, which turned into more than $500,000, launched a great debate on just what would be built.

Smithsonian literature says that Smithson's motives for bequeathing the gift "remain mysterious. He never traveled to the United States and seems to have had no correspondence with anyone here. Some have suggested that his bequest was motivated in part by revenge against the rigidities of British society, which had denied the illegitimate Smithson the right to use his father's name." (James Lewis Macie at birth, he changed his name after his parents died.)

His story, you think, is inspiring: An illegitimate son gave birth to such an institution that would be dedicated to providing the free experience.

You continue your journey across the Mall and into the National Gallery of Art, though you will learn that this museum with prime real estate on the Mall is not affiliated with the Smithsonian at all. Still it is free and because it is free, you push open the door and step in.

A guard is standing in a room full of postimpressionists. And you never noticed the guards before, never thought to stop and talk to them before because you figured they only wanted to keep you away from the paintings, ask you to remove your backpack. And it is then when a guard walks up to you and says: "Excuse me, ma'am, do you have a ticket for this exhibit?"

And you fumble for a moment. First, because the guard, usually frozen as if in a painting, has not only moved, but has spoken. And has not only spoken but asked you for a paid ticket. Images speed through your mind, thinking you have been caught like a freeloader at a concert slipping backstage. But then you think, Hey, wait a minute. This museum is free.

And he laughs: "Just kidding."

You stop near the van Goghs. And you notice "La Mousme," oil on canvas, 1888, a painting of a dark girl with a red ribbon in her hair and a polka-dot skirt. Her brown eyes moving, watching the people looking at her. The girl with the red ribbon and the brown eyes is striking because she is juxtaposed next to the self-portrait of Vincent van Gogh, whose blue eyes match the blue of the background. And you are absorbed in the moment, wondering about the brown girl with the brown eyes who sat for a painting in 1888.

All around there are all kinds of people who have deigned to come in: girls with Britney parts and translucent skin that fairly match the French portrait they just walked by, and old ladies with blue hair and jogging suits, and professorial-looking men with striped shirts and tan suit jackets. And quiet waterfalls and young women with red leather jackets and fading red hair. And teens in flip-flops and spaghetti straps. Nobody dresses up anymore for the free experience.

But what is most important, it seems, is that they are present, like the people you overhear discussing Auguste Renoir's oil of Diana, the goddess. The male tourist says to the female tourist: "There is lots of detail." And the woman says to the man: "Yeah, he did a lot of work on that one."

Critiqued in plain English. And you know that this free experience has expanded their worlds.