I have never been the kind of person who likes art.
Painting is messy, colour is hard to get right, and the finished product is something I could take in with a single glance. I always wondered at the point of galleries; how you could see anything but a blur of colour as you walked by. People, places, and things... Art was the noun of the English language, prevalent but barely noticed, frequently used but never appreciated.
And then one day, when I was in a little gallery, killing time (because what else are galleries for?) I found it. I'd been wandering with some friends, checking the time every other painting and wondering absently why artists liked naked people so much, and it caught my eye right as I turned to go. The painting was huge, almost the same size as Mom's piano against our living room wall, and even before I saw the four-figure price tag, I knew I wouldn't be taking this one home.
But for the first time, I wanted to.
It was a winter scene, the sky heavy with clouds that were faintly purple and pregnant with snow. A hazy, barely-there breath of wind stirred snowflakes into a mist that threatened to obscure the faint outlines of trees jutting up against the horizon. The painting showed a farmer's field, hay prickling up from the snowdrifts, and towering hay bales wearing white fluffy caps of snow. It could have been any field, anywhere in Canada or even the Northern United States, but I knew it wasn't. I recognized it.
The painting was of the farmland we drove past to visit my grandparents; all two hours of us crammed in a car together, smelling like the donuts and Tim Hortons coffee Dad always picked up on the way. The scene caught my heart with the silence of it all, a space that we always filled with Adventures in Odyssey episodes, singing with the music turned up as loud as Mom would let us, or just talking. It was one of the only times we wouldn't argue when we discussed things, which seems backwards but has always felt natural to me. I remember leaning forward at night, closing my eyes against the headlights from oncoming traffic, rare in the country and hard on the eyes. My parents often talked softly in the front seats, and I, the eldest, felt it my right to be privy to their conversations.
Looking at the canvas, I understood why people like art. It's not what you can see; it's not about the colour, the shapes, or the size of the brush the artist chose to use. Art is about the soft whisper that says "remember this?" Or "what if?" Art makes you do your own thinking, instead of telling you what to feel.
I walked out of the gallery that day with my heart beating a little more quickly, but in the busy days that followed, the painting slid from my mind. I don't know the name of the artist, or what the piece was titled. And I didn't think about the gallery or the treasure it held for a very long time.
It's been on my mind a lot lately. I don't wish I'd bought it back then (an 18-year-old with $40 in cash isn't really in a position to buy and then transport a piano-sized painting more than an hour journey back home), but I wonder what I'd do if I ever found it again. I picture myself sliding my debit card across the counter without even checking the price tag, even though in reality I'd be more likely to get cold feet at the thought of all those numbers.
I haven't been to another gallery since, haven't been revolutionized into an art fanatic overnight, but I think about it a little differently now. I'm more likely to stop and think about the art I see hanging on people's walls, explore how it makes me feel and wonder what kind of response it evokes in them.
Would I call myself an art lover? Probably not. But I'm learning to look at each piece with something just as good... appreciation.
Do you like art? Why? Why not? Did you ever take long car rides with your family? (And argue/have deep philosophical discussions??)
xx,
Olivia
P.S. I'm blogging from from a TRAIN today, isn't this exciting?? Who else loves trains?? (me!)
Painting is messy, colour is hard to get right, and the finished product is something I could take in with a single glance. I always wondered at the point of galleries; how you could see anything but a blur of colour as you walked by. People, places, and things... Art was the noun of the English language, prevalent but barely noticed, frequently used but never appreciated.
And then one day, when I was in a little gallery, killing time (because what else are galleries for?) I found it. I'd been wandering with some friends, checking the time every other painting and wondering absently why artists liked naked people so much, and it caught my eye right as I turned to go. The painting was huge, almost the same size as Mom's piano against our living room wall, and even before I saw the four-figure price tag, I knew I wouldn't be taking this one home.
But for the first time, I wanted to.
It was a winter scene, the sky heavy with clouds that were faintly purple and pregnant with snow. A hazy, barely-there breath of wind stirred snowflakes into a mist that threatened to obscure the faint outlines of trees jutting up against the horizon. The painting showed a farmer's field, hay prickling up from the snowdrifts, and towering hay bales wearing white fluffy caps of snow. It could have been any field, anywhere in Canada or even the Northern United States, but I knew it wasn't. I recognized it.
The painting was of the farmland we drove past to visit my grandparents; all two hours of us crammed in a car together, smelling like the donuts and Tim Hortons coffee Dad always picked up on the way. The scene caught my heart with the silence of it all, a space that we always filled with Adventures in Odyssey episodes, singing with the music turned up as loud as Mom would let us, or just talking. It was one of the only times we wouldn't argue when we discussed things, which seems backwards but has always felt natural to me. I remember leaning forward at night, closing my eyes against the headlights from oncoming traffic, rare in the country and hard on the eyes. My parents often talked softly in the front seats, and I, the eldest, felt it my right to be privy to their conversations.
Looking at the canvas, I understood why people like art. It's not what you can see; it's not about the colour, the shapes, or the size of the brush the artist chose to use. Art is about the soft whisper that says "remember this?" Or "what if?" Art makes you do your own thinking, instead of telling you what to feel.
I walked out of the gallery that day with my heart beating a little more quickly, but in the busy days that followed, the painting slid from my mind. I don't know the name of the artist, or what the piece was titled. And I didn't think about the gallery or the treasure it held for a very long time.
It's been on my mind a lot lately. I don't wish I'd bought it back then (an 18-year-old with $40 in cash isn't really in a position to buy and then transport a piano-sized painting more than an hour journey back home), but I wonder what I'd do if I ever found it again. I picture myself sliding my debit card across the counter without even checking the price tag, even though in reality I'd be more likely to get cold feet at the thought of all those numbers.
I haven't been to another gallery since, haven't been revolutionized into an art fanatic overnight, but I think about it a little differently now. I'm more likely to stop and think about the art I see hanging on people's walls, explore how it makes me feel and wonder what kind of response it evokes in them.
Would I call myself an art lover? Probably not. But I'm learning to look at each piece with something just as good... appreciation.
Do you like art? Why? Why not? Did you ever take long car rides with your family? (And argue/have deep philosophical discussions??)
xx,
Olivia
P.S. I'm blogging from from a TRAIN today, isn't this exciting?? Who else loves trains?? (me!)
I've never been a huge art person either, but it sounds like you found an incredible painting. : ) I loved all of these memories <3 xx
ReplyDeleteHmm... I really like this - you write well. I'm the same - it takes a lot for me to appreciate art. But I like how you brought this around to the stories each piece holds, and the memories it evokes.. I think I'll be looking at art differently now.
ReplyDeleteI love this so much! Sooo well writing ('wondering why artist love naked people so much' 'which I as eldest though it my right to be privy to'- so much yes.)I love art, but the moment of TRUE appreciation and feeling, like you perfectly describe here- that is so precious and rare. I think I once read a quote 'if it make you feel something- it's art'. I don't know if that's 100 percent true- but it's definitely important.
ReplyDeleteAnd hard to do as an artist ;)
-Nina
art makes you do your own thinking, instead of telling you what to feel >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>> yES. i love this so much. and i love art and long car rides and trains and family and memories resurfaced. feels. :')
ReplyDelete"Art was the noun of the English language, prevalent but barely noticed, frequently used but never appreciated. . . . It was a winter scene, the sky heavy with clouds that were faintly purple and pregnant with snow. . . . all two hours of us crammed in a car together, smelling like the donuts and Tim Hortons coffee Dad always picked up on the way. . . . I remember leaning forward at night, closing my eyes against the headlights from oncoming traffic, rare in the country and hard on the eyes. . . . It's not what you can see; it's not about the colour, the shapes, or the size of the brush the artist chose to use. Art is about the soft whisper that says "remember this?" Or "what if?" Art makes you do your own thinking, instead of telling you what to feel."
ReplyDeleteYou had your moment in the gallery a year ago, Olivia, and there are artists out there who can paint pictures with brushes but you just painted a picture and recreated that moment with your words. I *loved* reading this post. You wrote it really well.
I love art, even though I can't analyze it and don't consider myself an arts buff--but like you said, they're some paintings that capture a mood, or a moment in time, so perfectly. Great post!
ReplyDeleteI've just recently gained an appreciation for art and the way it makes me feel, so I get this. I admire mostly the way a piece of art can make you FEEL something, y'know? It's so interesting.
ReplyDelete