Taking a breather through a visit to Georgia O’Keeffe’s
Sky Above Clouds IV during a lunch break
Published October 15, 2025
Like many of us, every day, I wake up, commute to work, and sit in front of a computer.
I’m a career counselor at a prestigious art school. I take it very seriously. A typo in a cover letter is the end of the world. A missed deadline will ruin your life. I stare at a spreadsheet that sits on a screen, eighteen inches away from my face.
For eight hours a day, five days a week, I commit myself to convincing young painters or sculptors that they need a more professional résumé, or that they should make plans for an internship. I space virtual meetings throughout my quotidian with time to take notes on each student; reading my notes before a meeting adds a personal touch. Meeting, spreadsheet, email.
Meeting, spreadsheet, email.
Meeting, polite small talk with a coworker, spreadsheet, email.
Lunch!
My position does afford me one pretty neat perk: free entry to museums. I often leave the office to wander in the one across the street. Even as I walk to the elevator, I’m checking emails on my phone. It’s lunchtime, but a job is a job.
There’s an email from a coworker requesting information that I know I already sent to them. My jaw clenches.
As I descend in the elevator, I start searching through my inbox to forward them the information…again. How will the art students find jobs when the people working with them can’t even check their email?
I’m writing a reply. Now my phone is just nine inches from my face, and I’m squinting as I type. Outside of the office today, the sun is overwhelming.
I type “Kindly,” and start conceptualizing what I will write. Maybe: “please refer back to” or “there may have been an error.” I realize the crosswalk has been lit for me to walk for sometime; I have to rush across the street before it turns red again.
But my fingers keep twiddling as I cross the street and ascend up the steps of the museum. There’s editing to be done. I begin to write: “If you kindly refer back to—” but then I’m looking up briefly to scan my ID. I have to keep my head up as I weave through the daily crowd.
I’m almost done.
Finally, I find an unoccupied bench and sit down, my phone in my hand with the email draft open.
I look up, and see Sky Above Clouds IV by Georgia O’Keeffe. The painting is eight feet high, and twenty-four feet wide. It hangs above me, monumental.
For the first time that day, I can feel the focal distance of my eyes relax.
The painting is a view of clouds from an airplane. The top depicts a pink horizon, and off-white clouds sit on a rich blue pool below. I feel my heart rate slow—since when was it beating so fast?
I let the screen on my phone go dark. In school, I had read about this painting. At the age of seventy-seven, Georgia painted this from her garage, in the New Mexico desert. Georgia and I, coincidentally, graduated from the same school; we both lived in New Mexico, and went to university in Chicago.
I wonder if the horizon is depicting a sunrise or a sunset. I wonder if other aspects of my life will follow this artist’s path.
My muscles lose tension.
I slip my phone into my pocket and just look, satisfied with simply existing. People walk by and around me, stopping at the painting. They look at it, contemplating alongside me.
I wish I could stick my hand into the atmosphere of those clouds. I wonder if the air is cooler there.
I wonder if Georgia O’Keeffe felt as panicked about painting these clouds as I feel about composing one email. There’s no way, I tell myself. She probably felt much more deeply about this painting, and less angry, and neurotic.
I sit here for longer than my allotted one-hour lunch, before making the well-traced journey back to my desk across the street. My phone remains in my pocket. And when I log onto my computer again, I see a notification:
“Sorry, I didn’t realize you had already sent this! No need to reply.”
I’m a career counselor at a prestigious art school. I take it very seriously. A typo in a cover letter is the end of the world. A missed deadline will ruin your life. I stare at a spreadsheet that sits on a screen, eighteen inches away from my face.
For eight hours a day, five days a week, I commit myself to convincing young painters or sculptors that they need a more professional résumé, or that they should make plans for an internship. I space virtual meetings throughout my quotidian with time to take notes on each student; reading my notes before a meeting adds a personal touch. Meeting, spreadsheet, email.
Meeting, spreadsheet, email.
Meeting, polite small talk with a coworker, spreadsheet, email.
Lunch!
My position does afford me one pretty neat perk: free entry to museums. I often leave the office to wander in the one across the street. Even as I walk to the elevator, I’m checking emails on my phone. It’s lunchtime, but a job is a job.
There’s an email from a coworker requesting information that I know I already sent to them. My jaw clenches.
As I descend in the elevator, I start searching through my inbox to forward them the information…again. How will the art students find jobs when the people working with them can’t even check their email?
I’m writing a reply. Now my phone is just nine inches from my face, and I’m squinting as I type. Outside of the office today, the sun is overwhelming.
I type “Kindly,” and start conceptualizing what I will write. Maybe: “please refer back to” or “there may have been an error.” I realize the crosswalk has been lit for me to walk for sometime; I have to rush across the street before it turns red again.
But my fingers keep twiddling as I cross the street and ascend up the steps of the museum. There’s editing to be done. I begin to write: “If you kindly refer back to—” but then I’m looking up briefly to scan my ID. I have to keep my head up as I weave through the daily crowd.
I’m almost done.
Finally, I find an unoccupied bench and sit down, my phone in my hand with the email draft open.
I look up, and see Sky Above Clouds IV by Georgia O’Keeffe. The painting is eight feet high, and twenty-four feet wide. It hangs above me, monumental.
For the first time that day, I can feel the focal distance of my eyes relax.
The painting is a view of clouds from an airplane. The top depicts a pink horizon, and off-white clouds sit on a rich blue pool below. I feel my heart rate slow—since when was it beating so fast?
I let the screen on my phone go dark. In school, I had read about this painting. At the age of seventy-seven, Georgia painted this from her garage, in the New Mexico desert. Georgia and I, coincidentally, graduated from the same school; we both lived in New Mexico, and went to university in Chicago.
I wonder if the horizon is depicting a sunrise or a sunset. I wonder if other aspects of my life will follow this artist’s path.
My muscles lose tension.
I slip my phone into my pocket and just look, satisfied with simply existing. People walk by and around me, stopping at the painting. They look at it, contemplating alongside me.
I wish I could stick my hand into the atmosphere of those clouds. I wonder if the air is cooler there.
I wonder if Georgia O’Keeffe felt as panicked about painting these clouds as I feel about composing one email. There’s no way, I tell myself. She probably felt much more deeply about this painting, and less angry, and neurotic.
I sit here for longer than my allotted one-hour lunch, before making the well-traced journey back to my desk across the street. My phone remains in my pocket. And when I log onto my computer again, I see a notification:
“Sorry, I didn’t realize you had already sent this! No need to reply.”
Tatyana Scott
(SUBSTACK)
(WEB)
(IG)
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