By wistful
Date: 2005 Aug 26
Comment on this Work
[[2005.08.26.12.24.14717]]

Art

He stared up in bewilderment. "What is it?"

She smiled crookedly at him. "It's a painting."

He arched his eyebrow at her and exhaled impatiently. "Yes, yes, a painting. But of what? What is it supposed to be?"

She suppressed her laughter, but it twinkled in her eyes. "What do YOU think it is?"

"Oh no", he said, rounding on her. "Don't give me that 'art is in eye of the beholder' crap".

"I believe the phrase refers to beauty, and I'd hardly call a quotation from Aesop's fables crap"

"You know what I mean," he said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "Beauty, art, truth... it's all in the eye of the beholder if you deconstruct it far enough." His voice turned into the reedy simpering tones of an elated maiden aunt, ecstatic with aesthetic appreciation. "Art is what you make of it, you know. And if it makes me feeeeeel something. SOME thing. Oh my, yes. YES! I feel it! I feel the art! It's so true isn't it?!?" His normal baritone returned. "What I'm saying is, I want to know what the artist INTENDED it to be. I want to know what he.."

'.. or she..' she interjected.

'... or she' he continued without pause, 'was trying to communicate with this painting. Because that's what art is, isn't it? Some form of communication that is pleasing, or beautiful, or demanding, or, or ,. . . well, it needs to speak to you, doesn't it? And I DON"T KNOW WHAT THE ARTIST IS TRYING TO TELL ME."

"Maybe the artist isn't trying to tell you anything", she replied. Her smile still played around her lips. "Maybe the artist wants you to use your own brain and your own experience to decide what it means to you. How it makes you feel, without anything else to inform you but the painting itself, in the context of your life."

He scrutinized the painting again. He took in the colors, the shapes. He looked at it as a whole, and in sections. He studied the juxtapositions of hues, the textures of the brush strokes. He saw what was there, and contemplated what was missing.

"I think...I feel.... It makes me feel... frustrated." He deflated onto the bench in front of the painting.

She laughed, and sat down next to him. "Well, that's a start." She covered his hand with hers, and they stared up at the painting together.