Art Life

I once gave glimpse into what I'm like in museums when I wrote 'That Crazy Lady in the Museum'. That was somewhat of a extreme case. I couldn't help it. The war photography, the words 'Nationality Doubtful', it hits home. Generally I'm a bit more subtle. I still spend much more time in the same spot than most and I still write and yes, tears make appearances too. But only people who pay any attention to my stillness in one spot are the guards because most other visitors just sort of float the room and leave.  When I start writing though, I do seem to turn heads and invite stares. But as there is so much to say, only so much time I get to speak with just a pieces at any given visit, so those stares mostly assume I'm must be student on collage project. Tears well, they are mostly subtle enough that even if you went with me, unless you literally stood right next to me every second, even you wouldn't know when they came in whispers and left.
You see, art is something you ought to feel. It's not a thing of beauty to simply be admired on how it looks. That doesn't matter. It is ,but at the same time, it's not about the techniques, the colours, pigments, light or brush strokes. It's not even about the subject, or what being painted. It's not about how well it was done or how striking it is. What matters the most is, what it makes you feel. Because if you can't feel it, you won't know why the artist chose to make that the subject or use the methods they did.
And because I went to Getty on my b'day weekend, when I talked with those few paintings, a few poems came to be.

Micheal Sweerts' Head of a woman 

The beauty of your wrinkly face

The glow of your skin

The twinkle in your eyes

The secrets you hold

in that whispery smile

The life you must have lived

The stories you could tell

The hardship shows

but also the love you felt

all wrapped up in threadbare 

a prosperous life

and this all that's left...