I went to run some errands, and I walked by the Robert Brady Museum. It’s a visually astounding place. If R and I are ever in the situation financially that we can pick and choose, we’d like a house that’s our spin on Robert Brady’s version.
You can check out the museum’s website here.
And here’s a little something I wrote back in the day about the place:
Robert Brady was born in Iowa in 1928, and died in Cuernavaca, Mexico in 1986. He’s buried in the garden of his home, next to his two dogs.
Brady wanted his home to be open to the public after his death. The rooms are piled with eclectic pieces of art. They seem to sag from the weight and hum from the energy of their stories. A painting of Peggy Guggenheim that makes Dame Edna look attractive. Paper-mache masks from Guerrero, Chile and Tanzania. A Last Supper, made out of clay, with the disciples eating slices of watermelon.
You can walk right up to the objects, and, if you like, smell them. A teak wood armoire has the scent of a hundred hands. After it rains, the blue flower tiles in the kitchen smell like sorbet.
The bed in Brady’s room seems small for a tall man and the cranberry blanket feels like sandpaper.
Right next door is the Cathedral of Cuernavaca. From his bedroom Brady must have watched the priests across the way.
If you ask nicely, a museum guide may open Brady’s closet, take out an armful of silk dressing gowns, and display them on the bed.
There’s a café with a pair of tables across from the three tombstones. Coffee and tea is sold. You can sit and enjoy a slice of cake while you listen to the trees in the garden whisper about what they know.