art, from the perspective of someone who is not an artist
i understand why michelangelo wanted to use marble when
he sculpted david. from an artist’s standpoint, it is smooth and
clean and breathtaking; but i am not an artist. to me it is simply
a sculpture of a man in the nude, technically perfect, but still
just a man. but then again, i am no artist and that
man is not you.
in 1928 frida kahlo painted a portrait of her boyfriend but i
cannot help but wonder how she focused on only him when
the world is filled with so many beautiful people. i don’t think
i would be very good at painting anyone. it’s too easy to fall
in love with your subjects.
my mother is an artist and she told me parisian blue
sounds more poetic than ultramarine but sometimes
the color of your eyes doesn’t read like a haiku or
a sonnet, sometimes your gaze could send me beyond
the sea. if i painted you the first color i would put on my
palette would be cobalt.
salvador dalí said ‘the persistence of memory’ was actually
a representation of cheese melting in the sun. if i was an
artist i would have that attitude toward my greatest works,
so i could forget what it took for me to pour out the
emotions. they call it painting for a reason.
vincent van gogh told his brother that he would paint
a portrait of his artist friend, who he called a dreamer. ‘poet
against a starry sky’ feels like home when i remember the
blue and yellow hues of the stars staining the night. i may not
be an artist but i will stand still for you to sculpt me from scratch.
i will be your infinite muse if you will be my french café artisan.