ART LOVER
I have been an art-lover at heart for as long as I can remember--probably since I used crayons to create my first masterpiece. My maternal grandmother had framed pictures of famous art. Daddy Joe had real oil paintings in his grocery store, battle scenes of the Battle of Midway in which, my uncle, the artist, had flown a Navy plane off an aircraft carrier. Daddy painted in oils and I treasure one of his paintings I inherited now hanging in my office. And over my lifetime, I have visited hundreds of art galleries and museums. I am thrilled with what I've seen.
In the early 1980's, a tour of famous Impressionists came to the Los Angeles Museum of Art. Myself and three other co-workers got tickets for the viewing, called in sick, and traveled the thirty miles to indulge in the real paintings within our reach. I can still remember wandering from room to room, fixated on looking at them up close, and then standing as far away as possible to get the true picture. There was a hush in that building, a quiet adoration of beauty and power.
Some of the paintings were playful, several were severe, more reached out and touched my soul. I was drawn to the color, the artist's imagination, not bothering to wonder whether I was an expert in the meaning of the work, or not. My emotions were on a see-saw. I smiled, I laughed and I felt the mist of tears fill my eyes. Those paintings filled me with a deep longing to be a part of that world. And I found out a way to do just that.
As a writer, I see stories in the art pieces I view, then and now. It makes no matter when the art was created, or what the experts tell us the artist had in mind when he painted it, I can make up my own tales of what I see. If you are blocked in your writing, go to the library, pull one of those huge, heavy art books off the shelf, grab pen and paper (or your laptop) and make notes on what you see in a special work. If a story doesn't form immediately, I will guess that at least you are once again writing.
I left the art behind in that building then but it still, all these years later, remains in my heart. I was in the midst of royalty, celebrity, unforgettable beauty--and the possibility of being able to create my own art--with words.
In the early 1980's, a tour of famous Impressionists came to the Los Angeles Museum of Art. Myself and three other co-workers got tickets for the viewing, called in sick, and traveled the thirty miles to indulge in the real paintings within our reach. I can still remember wandering from room to room, fixated on looking at them up close, and then standing as far away as possible to get the true picture. There was a hush in that building, a quiet adoration of beauty and power.
Some of the paintings were playful, several were severe, more reached out and touched my soul. I was drawn to the color, the artist's imagination, not bothering to wonder whether I was an expert in the meaning of the work, or not. My emotions were on a see-saw. I smiled, I laughed and I felt the mist of tears fill my eyes. Those paintings filled me with a deep longing to be a part of that world. And I found out a way to do just that.
As a writer, I see stories in the art pieces I view, then and now. It makes no matter when the art was created, or what the experts tell us the artist had in mind when he painted it, I can make up my own tales of what I see. If you are blocked in your writing, go to the library, pull one of those huge, heavy art books off the shelf, grab pen and paper (or your laptop) and make notes on what you see in a special work. If a story doesn't form immediately, I will guess that at least you are once again writing.
I left the art behind in that building then but it still, all these years later, remains in my heart. I was in the midst of royalty, celebrity, unforgettable beauty--and the possibility of being able to create my own art--with words.
posted by Barb | 8:50 PM
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