"So, what do you think?"
I liked it. Although it took a moment to see what the intention was, once I had it I could empathise completely. I recognised the patches of dusky blue, jagged and floating in a mist of anxious mauve. That's how I felt today. There are days where I feel like one of Van Gogh's Sunflowers, vibrant and vivid and a little unsettled. A kind of enthusiasm always accompanied by a weariness of that imminent moment, the moment when the joy dissipates and you find yourself imprisoned within Picasso's Guernica.
Other days feel softer, more gentle, the days that drift across you, all pleasant and lazy. I welcome those times in my life, when the people you meet enter your sphere like Monet's Water Lilies, so languorous and unassuming. They somehow always seem to arrive just before you are startled by their polar opposite, jarring you out of your absent-minded reverie. The juxtaposition of a mellow afternoon, tranquil and serene, perfectly simple - so Early Ming; that's when you walk straight into a Klimt, steely-eyes and confrontations.
I take them as they come now, these colours, shapes, moods. Sure, I have favourites, certain works that I revisit, time after time. Still, occasionally, I will stop and stare at one I don't even like, just..trying to understand it, trying to see it from a different perspective. Those are the days when I dwell on my pain, and I enjoy it. As silly as that may sound, I guess I have found some detail, some elegant tone the artist has inserted, almost as if for no one but themselves. I let them wash over me, I stand and appreciate the subtleties, the stroke of a brush, that shade of resentment slicing through me; the awful beauty of a day of rage.
"It's gorgeous, isn't it?".
