At the Pompidou Centre in Paris, we smirk. This is art? These displays of bricks and cotton fuzz? Wire and mortar? A window frame? Bah, says my father. I, at sixteen, wish to appreciate the postmodern display, but I must agree with my father. Bah, I say. The artist himself, perched silently at the end of the display, scowls. Had we known, we would have kept our bahs to ourselves.
The Mona Lisa. The Winged Victory. David, the Pieta, the Sistine Chapel. I have stood before them, smelling centuries before me, yearning to touch their smooth perfection. Awed.
Art class: I am pained that I don't have some special talent within me. As an art lover, I am deserving of such.
A tangle of scribbles, a collage of tissue paper, a handprint, globs of poster paint, something that looks vaguely like a dog.
My children: works of art.
A tree, a rock, a cloud.
What we have between us.
(For more thoughts on the topic "Art," see other Sunday Scribblings here.)