Magnum Opus
The Discovery
You know how back at school they told you stories of artists? They pointed their index finger at those cheap replacements for original masterpieces and pretended to know how to break the enigma. You'd think they could put that same exact index finger on what really mattered. They desperately needed big, formal words in order to sound like they actually knew what the hell they were talking about. Unfortunately, I believed them every word, being too young to do otherwise. I easily got interested in some of the most famous artists France has ever had, such as the likes of Monet. Somehow, though, I preferred Henri Matisse. he was not as popular, but more appealing to me.
I remember I would come home from school and ask my mother millions of questions about it. She had nothing to give me but a warm, patient smile and a stroke on the hair. I remember it so vividly, she would sit in a rocking chair in the kitchen, knit and hum the sweetest melodies. She had this gift, she could not raise her voice no matter how hard she tried and ended up always talking in lullabies. Imagine growing up on whispers.
My mother was a poetry writer, struggling for a big debut on the Paris art scene. She had always been a hardworking housewife, but after my father passed away from lung cancer she couldn't bring herself to do anything. Anything, but write. Ma mère triste. A big part of her died right there with him, but she never wanted me to see how badly it hurt. She always used to say poets lied most beautifully. But she was not a liar. And he never smoked a cigarette in his life.
On my 13th birthday she sat me down and told me; 'Son, there is more to art than oil paintings.' and handed me my present. As I unpacked it slowly, my eyes widened, and before I knew it, I was encountering an item completely new to me - shiny and valuable, mysterious but meaningful, black and beautiful. I held it with care. My very first camera.
I don't know why artists are expected to use mind-blowing, heart-throbbing language. Even if they're not poets. The stereotypes suggest we're intelligent, charismatic, and just a little bit crazy. People expect too much. Sure, I'm an aesthete and I probably always will be, but most of the time, it's pretty simple, really. We just forget to think twice. We have the beautiful freedom to transcend rules and norms. We're like criminals that get away with everything.
But now, after just a push of a button, all words are redundant.
I remember I would come home from school and ask my mother millions of questions about it. She had nothing to give me but a warm, patient smile and a stroke on the hair. I remember it so vividly, she would sit in a rocking chair in the kitchen, knit and hum the sweetest melodies. She had this gift, she could not raise her voice no matter how hard she tried and ended up always talking in lullabies. Imagine growing up on whispers.
My mother was a poetry writer, struggling for a big debut on the Paris art scene. She had always been a hardworking housewife, but after my father passed away from lung cancer she couldn't bring herself to do anything. Anything, but write. Ma mère triste. A big part of her died right there with him, but she never wanted me to see how badly it hurt. She always used to say poets lied most beautifully. But she was not a liar. And he never smoked a cigarette in his life.
On my 13th birthday she sat me down and told me; 'Son, there is more to art than oil paintings.' and handed me my present. As I unpacked it slowly, my eyes widened, and before I knew it, I was encountering an item completely new to me - shiny and valuable, mysterious but meaningful, black and beautiful. I held it with care. My very first camera.
I don't know why artists are expected to use mind-blowing, heart-throbbing language. Even if they're not poets. The stereotypes suggest we're intelligent, charismatic, and just a little bit crazy. People expect too much. Sure, I'm an aesthete and I probably always will be, but most of the time, it's pretty simple, really. We just forget to think twice. We have the beautiful freedom to transcend rules and norms. We're like criminals that get away with everything.
But now, after just a push of a button, all words are redundant.