Sometimes I need a little extra inspiration to lace up my running shoes and go for a jog. With the scorching summer temperatures giving way to cooler weather, I changed into my running clothes after a recent day of work and headed out to the Museum Park. I grew up visiting the Museum, but the farthest I had ever gotten into the Park was the theater.

Eager to get outside and squeeze a bit of exercise into my schedule as a journalism student at UNC-CH and marketing intern at the Museum, I chose the Explorer Trail. The scenic 2.3-mile path winds past the Museum, beside the newly terraced pond, along rolling hills, and through shady woodlands, offering a comprehensive view of the Park.

Dramatic works of art scattered throughout the grassy fields and along the tree-lined trails make the Park a unique setting for running. I stretched on benches constructed from remnants of the former youth prison that once stood on the grounds, pounded across pavement tattooed with floral designs, and ran between skyscraping circles. The art kept the run interesting as the works appeared in the distance, serving as an incentive to push forward. A monumental human form sprawled across the top of a ridge, while another one curled up into a ball in the woods. Towering sculptures like surreal tree trunks made for a dreamlike landscape. I had seen many pictures of the Park before, but the pieces were much more powerful in the natural setting. And for a tired runner, they offered a great excuse to rest and take a breather.

The trail was fairly quiet, with the occasional bicyclist whizzing by me on the downhill and a few fellow runners passing by with a casual wave. The scenery and seclusion the Museum Park offers is just the incentive I needed to get out and enjoy this refreshing fall weather.

Curator John Coffey’s remarks on the cell phone tour make the house in Andrew Newell Wyeth’s Weatherside (1965) come alive. He points out “the little specks of red in Christina’s window”—the geraniums that she always loved—and the tiny knot on the clothesline that show Wyeth’s obsession with detail.

As a new editor at the Museum, I knew I had a lot to learn. (I’m a newspaper veteran, not an art historian.) In my first days on the job, I’d hear coworkers rattling on about “the Steinkamp” or “the Archipenko.” I would nod sagely. Back at my desk, I’d look up those names in the Museum database. Aha! The Steinkamp is not some intimidating thing—it’s that flowing, ever-changing tree image projected on a wall of West Building. And the Archipenko is, of course, the Blue Dancer, balancing tirelessly on one pointed toe.

Well, two down, 3,834 to go.

Fortunately, I learned early on, not all of the Museum’s art is on display at once. For the moment I’d forget about the works in storage and focus on the 700 or so I could see.

And fortunately our curators and educators hadn’t left me to learn on my own. Before the new galleries opened, they had put together a cell phone tour to guide me—or any visitor—to some of the Museum’s highlights. Press 236 in the African gallery, and I could hear Ledelle Moe telling how she sculpted each head in Congregation. Or press 235 near the Krater, and curator Mary Ellen Soles tells about “the great intellectual drinking parties of ancient Greece.”

Listening and looking became my favorite part of the new job. When I had a bit of time to spare, I’d head to the galleries, check out an audio wand, and scope out a painting or two. Exploring reassured me that my ignorance was not total: amid the mysteries I found old friends Degas and Wyeth and O’Keeffe—oh, and have you heard, we have Rodins?

So, four months I’ve been here now. A couple of newspaper friends came by for lunch, and when we finished I led them into the galleries.

“You’ve got to see this,” I urged. “Lines That Link Humanity. By a Ghanaian artist, El Anatsui. Isn’t it amazing? He made it of old liquor bottle labels and even pieces of old newspaper printing plates—thousands of them.—And look, over here, this is the Steinkamp­—”

“You really know your art!” one friend exclaimed.

“Well,” I replied, “I’ve been keeping an ear out.”

Listen to remarks by curators, educators, and scholars using your own cell phone in the galleries, gardens, or Museum Park. Or check out an audio wand at the Information Desk for $3 (free for NCMA members). To listen on your own MP3 player, download the Cell Phone Tour.

Special thanks to David Mueller, who kindly gave permission to use a track from the Heads on Sticks EP, Oak City Version. (Hat tip, New Raleigh.)

Note: That the name of the band fits the subject matter perfectly is just lovely serendipity.

(Here’s a direct link to the video.)

When things settle down a bit, we’ll tell you what it was like to see our home in the new building for the first time. That’s where we met our maker, Ledelle Moe, once again. That will have to wait for another day.

Instead, we want to share some amazing news: You know we’ve actually been on loan for a long time–visitors and volunteers alike love us–but it’s meant that we haven’t always felt like we were part of the family around here. That’s all changed. The Museum docents (we love you!) have generously decided to purchase us so that we may be part of the permanent collection. We’re thrilled. We’ve come a long way on our journey to North Carolina, and soon we will be able to call it home, forever!

This post is part of the series Follow Our Journey. Follow Congregation and six other works of art on the Big Move to the Museum’s new building.

Ledelle Moe, Congregation, 2005–07, concrete, dimensions variable, Courtesy of the artist, © 2009 Ledelle Moe

We can’t remember a time when we’ve been apart. You see, like most groups, we are stronger in numbers. We have more impact that way. It’s strange that even though each of is utterly unique, we all have really similar qualities. We are all made of concrete, we are roughly the same size, we all have a steel pin going through our head, and we are all the same age. It’s funny, because even though we look like we’re old, we’re really quite young. Our faces are all different, yet when you look at us, they sometimes seem the same.

Each of us is important individually, yet equally important as part of a group. And speaking of being in a group, sometimes it is tiring holding your head up, only knowing the same face next to you day after day, night after night. But soon, that will change. Soon, we will all come down from the wall and take a journey to a new place. And with that journey, we will each have a new face next to us. For now though, we patiently wait, looking forward to the day we can rest our heads for a bit.

This post is part of the series Follow Our Journey. Follow Congregation and six other works of art on the Big Move to the Museum’s new building.

This summer while attending a workshop entitled The Art of Collaboration at the North Carolina Museum of Art, I wandered over to a bench, sat down, and quickly became mesmerized by two women that appeared to work at the museum. One was dressed casually and comfortably. She stood on a ladder drilling holes straight into the wall wherein she stuck a metal rod attached to a concrete head. The other, dressed more professionally, stood next to a cardboard box–a box filled with faces she’d randomly pull out and hand to the other woman.

As I watched a piece of art unfold, I began asking myself questions. I wondered if these two women had a plan or a grid. I wondered how heavy the faces were since they didn’t seem to be supported by drywall anchors. I wondered who the artist was and what the piece meant to him. Before long, I felt compelled to ask these questions of the installers, and to my surprise, I learned that the woman on the ladder, a young, beautiful woman with a South African accent, was the artist herself. It was like meeting Harper Lee, the author of To Kill a Mockingbird, and I was left speechless.

The next day, while standing in front of Congregation and thinking about its story, I noticed a young woman not far from me doing the same. “Excuse me,” I said nervously, “But are you the artist I met yesterday?” The twenty minute conversation that ensued was engaging, inspiring, and monumental in my eyes. Others gathered to listen, but I, transformed by an artist, hung on her every word. In that dialogue, I learned a little bit about her story: how she created the piece. What inspired her. What she valued. What surprised her. I learned how my interpretation was part of her story. The faces speak a story. The title speaks a story.

The story continued as Rocquel introduced Ledelle Moe’s work to her 8th grade students; she offered the artwork as a metaphor for the stories they create as individuals and as a “congregation”.

Ledelle Moe’s Congregation is currently on view in the Modern Gallery.