Art classes, art history, art galleries—all are attractive to me. Something in my soul is magnetic to canvas and paper. Why is it that the splotchy doodles of a preschooler and the impeccable works of famous artists can relate truth and cause me to wonder at the beauty within? Is beauty inherent in pencil touching pad and brush streaking thick? People pay to see chiseled faces with ferret-like eyes hanging on museum walls but they complain about fingerprints of motley colors on a countertop after kids dig into the paints. But do they realize that the artists they most admire developed their skills somewhere? that they had to have made a mess of someone’s kitchen before their “Mona Lisa” could be respectable enough to be hung in the Louvre? Bleary-eyed we expect to have genius without practice, art without profound emotion, deftness without instruction.
2 months ago
2 comments:
Caits, you write good reminders. :)
Oh that I would have been more patient with the artist in training. I love you!
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