Visiting the Victorian Art Gallery today, I was taken by the number of people, headphones at the ready, viewing the latest exhibitions.
I wish I could do this and discover the wonders of what each artist was about, alas I am so tech un-savvy that this is beyond my present capability.
No, while everyone else was enjoying the show I was whimpering in a gallery corner asking my viewing companion to pat my head and stroke my arms. I was a mess.
Though to the public this was not the case, it did seem like I was obviously out of my comfort zone.
In fact it was well within my comfort zone. Having drawn a lot of the pictures that were on display in learning art, I was well placed to understand the work.
I really felt the pictures on display. They moved me for their colour, form and characteristics. My eyes moved from line to line sweeping in smooth strokes as if they were doing the painting. The paintings were,as all paintings are, beautiful and important. They spoke to me as if the artist, although maybe dead, was in the room with me.
I find it difficult to describe the feelings that painting,writing, poetry and photography bring for me, but those feelings are something I guard lovingly. To be fortunate enough so as to be brought to tears by the humility of a picture or the quietness of a phrase, is truly a blessing.
For now I am prepared to go back every morrow and fall about crumbled on gallery floors, tear soaked, should I be fortunate enough to feel more beautiful works