There are people, posers if you will, who stand before the most abstract of art, to evaluate nothing but their ego. They search between the stark lines and contours of a canvas, to prove nothing but a point. An illusion unfolds as they project a capacity to unearth the hidden message of the artist, an artist who had no other intention than to splash a dash of this and dabble of that, an artist who likely laughed at the idea of the pompous viewers who would someday assess his afterthoughts.
But then there is art that grips even the most indifferent observer, perhaps one who would love to dwell before a masterpiece but has forgotten how. Art so captivating that is beckons appreciation from the rushed and taxed. It inspires connoisseurs and troglodytes alike with a message so saturated with sadness and grace that it seeps beyond the confines of frames and into one’s consideration.
I don’t know how to pinpoint why certain images speak. I am no master, and I lack the language to articulate the mechanics of a captivating canvas. But does that really matter? Beauty, like most things is relative and the language to correctly describe something, no matter how refined and widely endorsed, is merely a construction…
I haven’t cried in several months. I sometimes consider tears a luxury my schedule does not permit. Or maybe that is my justification for not being as sensitive as I used to be.
I will not say I cried today, but I was somewhere on the brink. I shed a tear or two. I went to the DIA to see an exhibition of Avedon’s photography. One shot, imparticular stirred something in me and silenced my cynicism. Before me stood a woman, fair and slender, surrounded by circus elephants. They were tethered down by chains and she by the sash below her breasts. All were in captivity, and somehow a silent understanding was shared by all.
This image spoke.
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