“I respond to that great painting in a way that I now believe is fundamental to a peculiar power of art…What was beautiful in the painting was not like words, it was like paint – silent, direct, and concrete, resisting translation even into thought. As such, my response to the picture was trapped inside me, a bird fluttering in my chest. And I didn’t know what to make of that” (Bringley 10).
I haven’t felt this feeling in a long time, maybe never. More often than not, I piece out the parts of art that I can understand or have the words to describe why I like it, or am able to defend why it’s beautiful (or ugly if that’s the direction of the conversation).
What is it called to feel nostalgic of a feeling you’ve never felt before? This feeling is something I crave now, the state of delight as I’m stalled in unintelligible wonder trying to understand what will never disclose. I’m sure when I find this art, I’d spend a lifetime trying to understand it to its core, but taking solace in each failure, knowing that the next moment of study will produce new and endless ways of trying to describe its beauty and effect on me. True beauty is silent and mute.
Art carries feelings within itself. I see it as a medium delivering feelings from artist to viewer. Sometimes the message is relayed, sometimes not, but the symbol stands nonetheless. We see ourselves in the art that holds us the tightest whether we recognize this fact or not. The work becomes less of a physical matter, and more spiritual as it reflects something back to us; a piece of ourselves. It validates a thought, a feeling, some fear, or love through this reflection, bringing to life both the art and ourselves.
It’s a dissolving immersive experience to be both witness and active participant of art. The connection is not founded in speech, but sensed in feelings of spiritual matter. Each gains something from the other: recognition.
But art today feels less sacred and more profane. Top-down rather than bottom-up. It’s created not as a means of expressing the unknown and too large, but to hit a mark and yield an effect. It’s created from too many known-variables to deliver a known answer. It’s shallow from its intelligence and loudness.
The surrendering aspect is being forgotten, both in creation and in viewing. To surrender to the force of passion and unknowingness. When we remove our ego from the process and allow the spirit to shine. That’s when the spirit speaks.
“My eyes stay wide while my inner life grows all mixed up with beautiful works of art and the life that swirls around them” (Bringley 13).
The more time I spend in these suspended states of blissful ignorance, the more I seek them out in areas in which I “know my way around.” It’s amazing what’s overlooked and forgotten over the course of workday or commute. The smallest joys become apparent in undeniable brilliance. It’s made it easier to sit with time. Not in a rush to get somewhere, but taking joy in the ability to witness “here and now.” Feeling the wind caress my face as I wait to cross the street, imagining someone else holding me in such a delicate and selfless embrace. Noticing the details of the building I pass everyday on my way to work and admiring the intricateness and praising the artisan’s skill in its design. Astonished at the streams of thick, wet, golden light pouring through my window from the winter sun’s radiance and wondering if this is the gold of the gods and goddesses.
Artists grab hold of every piece of feeling and inspiration that creates the perfect idyllic setting. Noticing those little details that thread the show together and relishing in the larger acts that have the power to move mountains of beliefs and habits within. Pulling from memories in the past, clues in the present, and hopes of the future, all in vain efforts to create something akin to perfection.
“Hopefully, in the silence and the stillness, you’ll experience something uncommon or unexpected” (Bringley 177).
Work Cited: Bringley, Patrick. All the Beauty in the World: The Metropolitan Museum of Art and Me. Simon & Schuster, 2023.