It is just some throwaway piece of art at another throwaway art show? Do I have the right to call it throwaway? Why do all these thoughts slam and bounce in her brain? She ponders carefully in her own mind how can that be, why is this picture so desired and why has it forced these thoughts on me? What is beauty? Is beauty something that makes my mind run in thousand different directions, to think thoughts that have nothing to do with the “art” my eyes are engaged with? Why does it need to be criticized, why does it need to be believed? Does a picture get better with people viewing it, are all things better this way? Is it better because it caused me to think things, that in my mind, are bigger than myself?
Beauty is trenched deep within our souls. We get undersized glimpses of it from time to time as we progress through this gentle tap dance of oceanic current. I remember someone saying this and thought to myself that’s not really an epic line or something will have any bearing on the way I think about beauty. Again, do I have the right criticize anything? What does this picture mean? What does it mean to me? Why don’t I have any emotion when I look at it, is that what makes a piece of art worth the time to look it. She looks at the portrait one last time and moves on. Yet she is drawn back to its presence. She knows not why. It is nothing epic or sweeping, just a chair, a chair with a peculiar light upon it. It beckons and waits; forever it waits, like a stone waits for the end of time. She thinks to herself in with images flying through her mind, in quick succession, what beauty has my life brought forth, is beauty in my essence. I do not belong in this fold. Glimpses of feet and rolling pencils and trees and hats shoot through her mind like a bullet train through a tunnel. The thoughts to the times of trying her hand at artwork fly through her mind. Why does everything I make, make me feel worse about myself and what I try to do, she thinks to herself as she glares into the painting with lugubrious eyes. I have no weight I can’t make you cry. I make you feel small, my picture is on the wall and yet there you sit in a chair waiting forever wondering and hoping. Maybe once your idea of what art can be, or how your emotions move you, are special. Yet she returns to the photo hoping for that response, grandeur obtained from a collection of light breaking through the darkness of the world.