Art Collage by Kathrynfor more of Kathryn's photography visit-
http://www.pbase.com/katwilkens
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Suggested prompt...
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I’ve always loved art and have a true appreciation for the gift some people are given to bring life to pencil and paint. I am especially fond of the classics: Monet, Van Gogh, Rembrandt.
While in Sweden, we visited the National Museum in Stockholm. Knowing we were only interested in certain works, we carefully planned our visit, analyzing the visitor’s map, setting out our own personal tour. As with most art museums, each room was dedicated to either an artist or a particular period, with small foyers separating each area.
The Husband was reading the map, leading the way, and I simply wandered behind him, awed at the paintings I was seeing.
I glanced over my shoulder to see The Husband disappear around a corner. I followed him and found myself in a tiny darkened foyer. To my left was the entrance to a larger, brightly-lit room in which hung enormous paintings, at which The Husband was already gazing. I was about to follow him, when something caught my eye. The walls in this foyer were barren except for a glass-enclosed case to my right. I turned to look and the air rushed out of me as I gasped.
There, before me, was one of Rembrandt’s self-portraits, one he painted in 1630. It suddenly hit me—where I was, what I was experiencing. These were works I had only seen in books and slides in classrooms. Here I was, standing amidst paintings that were brushed hundreds of years ago, by legendary artists. Overcome with emotion, I began to tear and I stood like a fool gaping at this incredible artistry.
As I’m standing alone in this darkened room, gazing at the portrait, in walk four Chinese tourists. They do the same thing I did. They walk in, all gibbering to each other then stop cold as they see the self-portrait. There’s a moment of silence as it registers, then they all start chattering excitedly to each other in Chinese. Clearly, they can’t believe it either and are equally impressed. They see me—the only other person in the room—and point excitedly at the painting. I smile and nod with them, the excitement clear on my own face, I’m sure. They gather around me and we all stand there, in silence, gazing in wonder at this masterpiece.
I sniffle, trying to swallow the enormous lump in my throat. One of the men pats my shoulder and murmurs something comforting in Chinese, smiles at me and they go off into the next room, the bond broken, but not forgotten. Never forgotten.
Crazy Mo
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6 comments:
Oh, his hands gripped her fleshy leg, and her side, and she tried to run and kick, but he would win.
As he tried to bury his face in her breasts, she pushed away, as if trying to preserve her innocence, but to no avail.
His legs and arms rippled as he pulled her to him.
Their struggle seemed so tense, as if you could hear her screams and feel his hand on your own leg.
Bernini's Pluto and Persephone
Grandma's hands,
brittle and thin,
like tree branches
in winter.
At church,
crooked, wrinkled fingers
bear Rosary bead hand cuffs
while she prays in her pew.
At home, in her rocking chair,
her hands patch quilts
and weave yarn,
resembling roots,
full of life and strong.
Her hands, they patch stories,
sewing picture squares.
Her hands, they are powerful,
bearing her knitting needles
like Samurai swords.
Intricate fabric, together
all the squares tell a tale.
Grandma's heart is the narrator,
her hands, the typewriter.
Click click click
eyes blink with disbelief,
you can't believe the portrait
Grandma's hands weaved.
With every bit of my being I am able to find myself drawn in to another world. Setting this moment in time aside, I jump in and find myself in a country setting where the freedom of the land and the sweetness of the air flow through my veins.
I can watch the cattle on the hill graze, enjoying each sprig of grass that grows. Hearing the ripples and droplets in the stream, just a few inches away; I close my eyes and am washed by the water’s cleansing touch. The birds are singing to me, their precious morning song and the flowers are bursting open to greet the sun, as it warms my body.
This is the life, friends; to live in the moment of a fine piece of art.
I’ve always loved art and have a true appreciation for the gift some people are given to bring life to pencil and paint. I am especially fond of the classics: Monet, Van Gogh, Rembrandt.
While in Sweden, we visited the National Museum in Stockholm. Knowing we were only interested in certain works, we carefully planned our visit, analyzing the visitor’s map, setting out our own personal tour. As with most art museums, each room was dedicated to either an artist or a particular period, with small foyers separating each area.
The Husband was reading the map, leading the way, and I simply wandered behind him, awed at the paintings I was seeing.
I glanced over my shoulder to see The Husband disappear around a corner. I followed him and found myself in a tiny darkened foyer. To my left was the entrance to a larger, brightly-lit room in which hung enormous paintings, at which The Husband was already gazing. I was about to follow him, when something caught my eye. The walls in this foyer were barren except for a glass-enclosed case to my right. I turned to look and the air rushed out of me as I gasped.
There, before me, was one of Rembrandt’s self-portraits, one he painted in 1630. It suddenly hit me—where I was, what I was experiencing. These were works I had only seen in books and slides in classrooms. Here I was, standing amidst paintings that were brushed hundreds of years ago, by legendary artists. Overcome with emotion, I began to tear and I stood like a fool gaping at this incredible artistry.
As I’m standing alone in this darkened room, gazing at the portrait, in walk four Chinese tourists. They do the same thing I did. They walk in, all gibbering to each other then stop cold as they see the self-portrait. There’s a moment of silence as it registers, then they all start chattering excitedly to each other in Chinese. Clearly, they can’t believe it either and are equally impressed. They see me—the only other person in the room—and point excitedly at the painting. I smile and nod with them, the excitement clear on my own face, I’m sure. They gather around me and we all stand there, in silence, gazing in wonder at this masterpiece.
I sniffle, trying to swallow the enormous lump in my throat. One of the men pats my shoulder and murmurs something comforting in Chinese, smiles at me and they go off into the next room, the bond broken, but not forgotten. Never forgotten.
I remember standing in the hall where the art hung. I remember being awestruck at the announcement of the winner. Many did not understand. I was among them.
The contest had begun weeks before. We were to create a piece of art to bring to life paradise, to create a work of art that perfectly depicted where one could go to find solace or a perfect place of peace.
That day I went there to see all the entries. So many sunny and beautiful pieces of art hung on the walls. I had a few favorites, among them was one of rolling green grassy hills, with black-and-white cows speckled across it, grazing peacefully in the sunlight. The colors were so bright and beautiful. I felt it would be such a tranquil place.
Another was a beautiful and spectacular sunrise glowing on purple hills. It captured a beautiful moment the stilled my soul as I looked at it for many moments before moving on to the next piece of art.
The winner had stuck out to me in a way, yet not the way I thought would make it a winner. I was shocked to hear that it had one. Because when I had looked at it, I had thought it looked completely opposite of what I would have regarded as paradisaical. Its dark sky proved menacing with its rolling grayish clouds and smears of wind. I hadn't spent much time speculating on why the artist had entered the piece. It obviously had been a mistake.
But it had won!
The announcer went on, "Unlike the other entries, this piece truly holds a wondrous paradise." I couldn't believe my ears.
Then I saw it.
Back within the trees, hidden from the angry storm, was a cabin. It's warm light emanated from within. It was subtle, but true. What the perfect tranquility one could find in the depths of the angry world around them: a shelter from the storm, a paradise within the realities of the world.
I left with a new perspective that day. New ideas were sprouting within me from that painting: the one that depicted a true paradise.
Crazy Mo- I LOVED your piece! Congrats on the win! It is so true that art has a way of bridging the gap through language and culture where bonds can be made between very different people. Thank you!
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