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By Sarah Runyan | Senior Staff

Packed on a picnic blanket alongside the River Cam, I untangled interlocked limbs to gaze upon a friend looking through the viewfinder of his camera, capturing our group’s hazy, fanciful demeanor on film.  

“You look like you’re in a painting,” he said, examining the pinks and blues and purples of Cambridge on a Wednesday evening.

My California summers typically attract similar nights; repressed feelings would slowly drip from my friend’s mouths like honey from a wooden spoon, sweet on the tongue but tedious in delivery. Once dusk hit and cast the sky in dark magenta, we’d venture to the beach, savoring spoonfuls of gelato while contemplating the inevitability of time’s passing. I’m not sure why I assumed my summer in England would be any different. 

After a formal three-course meal provided by Pembroke College at the University of Cambridge, our bodies naturally followed the familiar cobblestone path to our favorite pub just outside of a large field that backed up to the river. 

It was laughably picturesque. Comforted by the soft rumble of raspy voices imagining the lives of the baristas at our favorite café and the exams we would take the following day, my eyes grew weary, transforming the large willow tree beside me into a pointillistic kaleidoscope of sage, emerald and jade. 

A large white swan glided through the water, stopping in front of us before carrying on to investigate a nearby punting boat. Flitting between the shadowed figures of my friends, I felt as if I saw the scene the way my camera-clad friend had: a painting carefully curated by an omniscient artist. 

I should be so grateful that my flawed disposition — smudged eyeshadow, stained gown and blistered heels — should be contained within the city’s manicured brushstrokes. For, who am I to be included in a picture of such serenity? It felt selfish to intrude on a scene so meticulously crafted, but our pictures were all raw around the edges, blotched together like discarded paint on a palette. 

Two days later, we took four trains, two taxis and one plane to Amsterdam. Weary and waned, we entered the city without an itinerary, entranced by its vibrant rainbow wash. Wandering across bridges packed with bikes and bouquets, we marveled at its sparkling sanguinity. Yet, I kept feeling my mind retreat to England — a place I caught myself calling home a mere two weeks after moving. 

Though I still had time before me, I kept catching myself flashing forward, imagining my return to my Berkeley apartment where I’d inevitably reminisce on my time in Cambridge — watching the sunset at Castle Mound, swimming in Grantchester at midnight, devouring chicken quesadillas from a local food truck in the early hours of the morning and later reconvening with friends to debrief in our favorite café. 

I replayed memories as I collected them, all golden smiles within lush storybook-esque settings. Everything I experienced while abroad felt oddly aestheticized, like something from the end of a coming-of-age film rather than pieces of my own life. 

In Amsterdam, I examined these moments, each enveloped in a warm, saccharine glaze. I didn’t know who I would be when I returned to Berkeley, but I knew that it wouldn’t be the same person I was before. 

My foolish longing for the comfort of Cambridge ceased when we entered the Rijksmuseum, all marble walkways and intricate hallways. Rather than mapping out our exploration of the expansive gallery, we let the corridors guide us down their labyrinthine passageways. 

Breaking off into smaller groups, we each gravitated toward specific paintings: Paul Joseph Constantin Gabriel’s “In the Month of July,” Johannes Vermeer’s “The Love Letter” and Vincent Van Gogh’s 1887 self-portrait. Navigating through the museum’s meticulous maze, we collectively stopped at Isaac Israels’ “Shop Window” — a painting that depicts a couple dressed in dismal colors looking in on a sea of children’s clothing, all vibrant reds and blues and yellows. 

It’s hard to say what drew us all to the painting; its deep-seated melancholia seeped into our jovial demeanor, reminding us of the troubles that would inevitably penetrate our lives once we returned home. 

Inspecting the piece closer, I let go of my initial impression of solemnity and, instead, saw two people looking in on a life they could have — one steeped in the picturesque. The dull browns and grays of the painting gradually began to amalgamate with its bold colors, blurring the lines between monotony and vibrancy. 

Leaving the museum, we took pause in its illustrious garden, renting wooden easels to translate Amsterdam’s delightful landscape on paper. Looking up from my faulty drawing, I turned to see my friends smudging their pastel-stained fingers on each other’s faces, using their materials to transform themselves into art.

We were, in our messy, vibrant makeup, starkly divergent from the natural ethereality of Amsterdam and Cambridge. But, in making a life for ourselves within these landscapes, we found beauty in one another and our shared lived experience. 

Summer invites idyllic images; the sun continually basks my supple surroundings in a dreamy light, making it much more difficult for the season, and all that it offers, to end. Under the star’s watchful eye, I didn’t have to search for art while abroad — I was already living within a portrait of my own design. 

“Arts Away” columns catalog Daily Cal staff members’ arts and culture experiences away from Berkeley. Sarah Runyan is the arts & entertainment editor. Contact her at [email protected] .

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