I've always been a word person. Writing is a hobby, reading is a pastime. Even the architecture itself of a simple letter is beautiful. They say a picture is worth a thousand words, and interestingly enough, I have come to realize that by extension I have a deep love of paintings for this very reason. I didn't know they would have such a great impact on me until recently when i had the chance to experience some really beautiful paintings. I say "experience" because I'm not one to just look at paintings, the same way that I don't just read a book. I go all in. Breath the words, embrace the brush strokes. Intense? Perhaps. But for all the exhaustive effort provided by the artist, shouldn't the viewer contribute a part of them self as well?
I've looked at paintings before, and they have been beautiful, breathtaking, and skillfully done. But this, this display was spectacular. Never mind the setting, or even the subjects of the paintings. I myself wasn't even aware of the small room full of people that surrounded me. It was one to one, painting to observer. Finding myself entranced by every brush stroke, I could no longer hear the quiet whisperings around me, only the gentle hum of the colors spotlighted by the faintly glowing light above me and the portrait. People have stood motionless for hours in front of just one painting and I never understood how this could happen. Now, as my streams of thought were directed by the unexpected colors in unexpected places, I knew I was powerless to turn away. A painting's concepts can teach you about yourself, about life's ups and downs, about change. Clear up problems. Introduce questions. There is so much to learn, so much to explore. It is simply beautiful how the--
"Hey, crazy! What up in yo head?"
I turned. It was Levi, my pretend "gangsta" friend. "Well, I was looking at this painting..." I responded, slightly annoyed that he had torn me out of such a delicate moment.
"I noticed! You've been standing there for like, half an hour."
"There's a reason for that," I said, glancing back at the painting.
"Yeah? Which is?" He was talking so loud. It felt like yelling in a church meeting to be so irreverent.
I put my hands on my shoulders and angled him toward the painting, as if he couldn't do it himself. He was looking at my like I was crazy, so I pushed his chin and turned his head toward the painting. "Just look at it. Tell me what you see."
"Okay. The guy is looking at the kid in the front, and the two girls in the back are crying."
"Alright, now what do you feel?"
"Kayla, you are crazy."
"Come on! People feel things when they look at pictures. What do you feel?"
"Confused. Why are the girls crying when the kid looks so happy?"
I giggled a little. "It wouldn't be beautiful if we knew all the answers, would it?"
He looked at me, his eyebrow raised. I could see that he and I were definitely on different pages. Probably different books even. I smiled. "Forget it. It's not for everyone I guess!"
"Definitely not," he responded, sounding positively relieved to not have to enjoy sitting still and staring at a picture. "But you know what is for everyone? Pizza. Everyone's leaving soon to go to that pizza place down the street, you in?"
"Yeah sure, just give me a minute. I'll meet you out front."
"Cool." Levi walked away and I turned back to the painting. I scanned it, looking for the truth I had touched moments before I was interrupted, but it was like trying to reenter a dream that I had woken up from early. The art was still stunning, but the intensity of past moments would have to be attempted later when I had more time.
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