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.
A word.
(For more thoughts on the topic "Art," see other Sunday Scribblings here.)
4 comments:
Ooh, I like this! (Is this your first Scribblings?)
It really drives home the idea that art is in the eye of the beholder. And drat, but that artist ought to know that and keep his scowls to himself!
great thoughts! i like how it starts out as if you're telling a story.
Perhaps your gift is writing.
Sounds like your art is definately the written word. Words that transfer off of the page and become what they name in our minds.
I know you love books and I just finished a good one so I thought I would mention it. The name of the book is the Heretics Daughter by Kathleen Kent. It's a gripping story of a young woman in the time of the Salem Witch Trials. This is the authors first novel and the tale is based on an ancestor of hers that was hung for being a witch.
Post a Comment