Black spikey thing

Sometimes life feels like a funny black spikey thing sticking out of the ground. I'm having a black spikey thing kind of day.

It's Art

I've been to a lot of art museums, my favorite being of course the Louvre, and second, the Met. I like going with the type of people who can stop and enjoy one painting for twenty minutes. Or people who take a sketch book with them and come back with something more than a snapshot. they carry away an interpretation.

You know how anoying it is to wait for a crowd to step out of the way so you can take a picture of a sculpture. Last time I went, I decided I wanted it all. I took pictures of the people looking at the art. I wish I had taken a picture of the scholarly looking group who spent a good 45 minutes in this room interpretting the art. This picture in particular caught their attention. They found a lot of emotion in the brush strokes. I don't doubt the emotion is there. It amused me. I spent considerable time in this room as well. I was trying to determine if art is inherantly good, or if it's value was determined purely by the location. Honestly, would anyone tke this work seriously in any other setting.

I suppose Hector would.

Alphabet soup

I found a quote that I really liked.

"Interpreting modern art is like trying to find a plot in alphabet soup."

Okay, so I really like modern art. It fascinates me, and it bugs me to death. It seems like a style of art that would be easy. See I like art, but painting is time consuming. To me, modern art is like instant expression. Splash some paint on a canvas, give it a title, convince an audience that it has a meaning, and there you have it--Modern art. Accomplishment without effort. Some of you who read this would take offence if I said, forget the years of study. Bang a few notes on a piano. Make it loud and disjointed, and call it 20th century. Yeah, I get that there's more to it that that. So even if some modern art looks like something my 4 year old niece could do, it just doesn't work that way. I've been playing around with paint for a long time. Realistic art takes time, but is doable. Impressionistic I find easier but takes more initial thought. Expression is just plain fun. Abstract? I can't do it. But I'm determined, and will probably waste considerable amounts of paint and canvas in the effort. If I ever do make something I like, I'll be sure to post about it and include a picture.

For now, I suppose I'll stick to alphabet soup. I like to make words and sentences. Who doesn't? Has anyone else ever tried to write a story? My soup got cold.

Just over nothing exists something

Warning: following is the most abstract, vague, non-committed post I have ever written. Do not expect to understand. Do not expect anything to mean what it looks like it means. If you can decipher any of it, congratulations—you know me better than I thought you did. If you do not understand it, don’t feel bad. After all, everyone must have their secrets.

Colors, sometimes bright and intense, sometimes fading into a state of near non-existence spread across the canvas of time, adding pigment to mere thought. When the brush first made a mark, it struck perplexingly. The artist should have known, should have had some concept of the finished painting, should never have made such a wayward stroke. But it seemed the brush had moved of its own accord, irresponsibly marring the image. The first mark was careless, but easily remedied, easily painted over.

The artist painted twice, three times, a forth. Each time on the same canvas. Each layer of paint concealing the previous. And when he was finished, discovered to his alarm that the painting he had hidden was more beautiful than the one that remained uncovered. The painting is framed now, hanging inconspicuously out of the way. To those that find it through effort or by mistake, it is as it appears, simple, a child’s effort made valuable only by the cost of the frame. To the artist, it is a secret, concealed for all eternity. He cares nothing for the visible product, despises it in fact. But he sees the truth. For behind the clear sky lie vibrant colors of abstract design. Between the hills now covered with trees, is a daring image he never intended for human eyes. In the depths of a still lake is the remnant of that first brush stroke. And in every other crevice are the pictures that never left the artist’s thoughts. He sees them. They are as real in his mind’s eye as if they had actually met the canvas. But alas the artist’s skill prevented them their moment.

If only. If only the artist had not doubted his work. If only he had not cared what others thought. If only the others knew what to look for. If only…but the if onlys are endless. So, as the boundaries of reality and fantasy meet and overlap, the only thought that remains is: if only the artist now had the heart to destroy the painting. And the title of the painting is as unrevealing as the painting itself: June uncovering secrets through invisible noticing.