Showing posts with label emotions. Show all posts
Showing posts with label emotions. Show all posts

Sunday, February 26, 2012

I Dream of Painting, and Then I Paint My Dream.

I was at an art museum this afternoon, with Matt.

We've been there a few times, and we never seem to have time to make it through the whole thing. We start at different parts, but always manage to end up next to the chain mail, armor and swords before we leave.

Anyway - that isn't really what I want to write about.

My biggest issue with art museums is that it seems like everyone wants to run through them. I start looking at this really beautiful Monet painting of a footbridge. Oil on canvas. Truly beautiful. I take a step back, just to look at it from another angle, and I realize everyone I entered the room with has disappeared. They have moved on to another exhibit, and I've been looking at Monet's bridge for 5 minutes.

But how can you not? How can you not stand in front of this painting, or Picasso's "Woman in an Armchair" illustrating the absolute devastation of his own deteriorating marriage ...or Salvador Dali's lobster phone ...or that weird piece in the corner that's mostly comprised of geometric shapes - how can you not stand in front of them for minutes, hours even, and let them take you in - or you them?

I mean, you don't pick up a book and flip quickly the pages and claim to have read it.

These paintings, this art - it is proof that these people exist(ed). Hours of their life hanging on a wall just for me. Their intimate thoughts. Their light-bulb moments. Their heartbreaks and triumphs. They are hanging on a wall for me, you - us.

So I just don't understand. I don't understand how people just breeze through, glimpsing here and there. Pausing for a minute to look at the very tiny details of a portrait, or some other more complex piece, not reading the name of the painting. Is it oil? Acrylic? Something else? What does it look like if you stand 5 feet away? 10 feet?

Maybe I feel this way because I paint, too. Maybe that's why I want to stare for hours at the strange piece of abstract art that's title says one thing, but its colors say another. I want to know what the artist saw. I want to see it. Feel it, even. I want to turn to my left or right and make eye contact with the person next to me and come to a silent understanding. Or experience being absolutely baffled together.

And if Bacon's "Study for Portrait VI" scares or concerns me, or if Couture's painting of an Italian street musician makes me cry for no apparent reason - should that be a solitary thing? Was it not meant to be experienced together? And how long do I let myself be consumed by these things? If it were a text...I'd give it 20, 40 minutes - an hour, a day. Maybe a few days.

Do I stay when I am left alone with Monti's Veiled Lady? Or should I turn and run, like everyone else, to the next piece of art - not allowing myself to feel it? Just skimming the back page for the details, and moving forward?

Monday, November 9, 2009

Teenage Drama

I wrote this when I was like...15. It's not really meant to make much sense unless you know the exact situation I'm talking about. I found it and thought I'd put it in here, just in case I ever want to look at it again!

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I use to try hard to hold back the tears
I've kept them suppressed for so many years
You walked out the door, and we don't know why

I guess this time it's okay to cry.

You took our hearts and walked away.
I don't want to miss you today.

Can you come back?
I swear I'll forgive you
Just come home.
We don't want to miss you.

You're not the same person we used to know
You used to love us, but now you don't
I remember days when you used to care.

I have a fear I'll be just like you
Emotionally lost and no clue what to do
Eventually "mine" will write about me
wishing for me to be who I used to be

- And maybe it will save me.

Sunday, June 28, 2009

Alphabet Soup

At least one other knows.

I won’t let the words set in behind the wall
When things become real, they leave and break and fail.
I can’t let you see inside at all
You might just realize my incapacity to feel.

What happens then, when you learn I’m a fraud?
That the smiles are fake and that I laugh at God?
Where are your words when they break through the cracks
Where will you run when I take off my mask?

I won’t let the words set in behind the wall
Because most words are fake, become plastic, and fall.
I won’t shine a light to help clear up the fog
Because when you see inside, you’ll see nothing at all.