Watergates

The burbling water fountain in my condo – oddly placed in a canyon of a complex. Then I realized I can hear the waterfall from my window way up high; it muffles the noise of the city – the beeping back up trucks, the shouting of sports fans, the hum of the subway, all these rhythms slip under the glissando of that trickle. I was once deaf, but now I hear. At the National Gallery’s sculpture garden, my favorite is a fountain circle with a half-dozen spouts shooting from the edge to the center. The arcs surge and sigh, seemingly to the beat of the music playing in the park. You can soak your feet in the cool pool and, in the proper season, the local ducks wade, stopping by to invite themselves to your snacks. In the American Art Museum there is a water fountain masquerading as modern chic. Sheets of water pour over a rectangle of black flooring – only barely separated from the rest of the floor by a subtle crack. This you can walk across, the liquid puddles around your shoes as if you were wading a stream. A sleekness ideal for stomping and kicking, investigated by many a toddler in depth.