(no subject)
i remember paris with distinct clarity. 17 year olds are impressionable, and i was no exception as i wandered the Louvre, jaw slightly askew, just another tourist looking for stories to take home.
yesterday i aced my art history final. i could tell you anything about the byzantine, proto-renaissance, renaissance and baroque periods, and their relative artists. point to a painting and i will explain it. i dont know if this A is attributed to my darling memory or if i am just THAT good, but there it is, folks. art history. who knew.
you can draw amazing parallels btwn art and human behavior/emotion in regard to love. afterall, the artist is more intimate with his work than any other person; and sometimes you are sure you cannot see where flesh ends and canvas begins. he must have been swallowed by the magnitude of his creation, paint or marble dust mixing with his sweat, face inches from his masterpiece. it was quite possibly a love-hate relationship; his passion and the bane of his existence. where others beheld perfection, he would see flaws. surely there would be jealousy. his canvas. his stone. his to mold and carve. his.
one day he must have blinked, all his time and effort blurring before him, forcing him to step back, to refocus; his feat from a different angle. from a new depth. the realization of something new and beautiful even to his own eyes. still his, though out there now for others to look at, to speculate about, criticize or worship. vulnerable and strong and flawed and perfect. but still his.
yesterday i aced my art history final. i could tell you anything about the byzantine, proto-renaissance, renaissance and baroque periods, and their relative artists. point to a painting and i will explain it. i dont know if this A is attributed to my darling memory or if i am just THAT good, but there it is, folks. art history. who knew.
you can draw amazing parallels btwn art and human behavior/emotion in regard to love. afterall, the artist is more intimate with his work than any other person; and sometimes you are sure you cannot see where flesh ends and canvas begins. he must have been swallowed by the magnitude of his creation, paint or marble dust mixing with his sweat, face inches from his masterpiece. it was quite possibly a love-hate relationship; his passion and the bane of his existence. where others beheld perfection, he would see flaws. surely there would be jealousy. his canvas. his stone. his to mold and carve. his.
one day he must have blinked, all his time and effort blurring before him, forcing him to step back, to refocus; his feat from a different angle. from a new depth. the realization of something new and beautiful even to his own eyes. still his, though out there now for others to look at, to speculate about, criticize or worship. vulnerable and strong and flawed and perfect. but still his.