Art Appreciation

December 7, 2015

Greetings from within the frame,

I was awake, waiting to not be awake, looking out the window, a dark frame in the dark room.  The trees floated in fog, as if they had been dancing, arms up, and then were frozen in place when I opened my eyes.  The streetlamps, nearly defeated by the mist, made the silhouettes, sinister, almost alien.  Still on my pillow I could feel the chill of the morning, leaching around the gray shapes in front of me.  The trees clawed upward, trying to clear the fog to see the sliver of the moon hidden just outside the frame.

I waited a little longer, watching the trees.  I had all night.  Another frame floats in from my memory.

A man is sitting at the table not far from where we eat.  His eyes are down.  He has a thick unkempt beard; wasn’t grown for style.  Both elbows are on the table, his arms parenthetically around his plate, one hand forking the meal toward his mouth.  There is a tattoo of a ring where his wedding band might have been.  The other hand is flicking through his phone.  His wife sits across from him, her back is to me but I can tell she is looking at the top of his head.  Both are silent through three courses and two refills of we-don’t-have-Coke-is-Pepsi-ok?

The trees patiently told their own silent story.  Somewhere beyond the frame the world was turning, the horizons racing away from each other.  Time was passing.  My eyes closed for a moment and the picture was still there behind my lids.

This week a friend of mine gave us a slice of truth.  We were in an art museum; for me, the first time in a while, longer than I can describe.  His truth was that people often won’t take the time to really look at art, at least not as long as it should be to be absorbed.  He said “Think of art as music, enjoy it as music.  You wouldn’t just listen to a few measures of a song and be satisfied.  It’s the same with art.  You have to look at it long enough to see what the artist put there for you to appreciate and enjoy.”

Just a few minutes before I had fidgeted in front of one painting after another, as if they were Facebook posts, flicking through to see if I was tagged in any of them.   My friend’s words convicted me, pinned me with his truth.

My friend asked “What music do you think of when you look at this painting?” and then it was important to engage the brain again, that long disused organ.  I struggled, searching for the connection, suddenly as unprepared as the French test where I had to conjugate verbs that I couldn’t define.  I felt like an alien in a fog.

I sat up in bed and the orientation of the frame swiveled so the trees were more accurate.  I put myself among them, tried to relate.  I know what the cold fog feels like when you are running through it, taking it deep into your lungs.  I’ve been in this picture before.  The trees now look as if they are holding the grey blanket down around them.   I could feel the warm place I had been sleeping, and it was tempting.  I looked out the window instead.

Sculptures.  Tapestries.  Paintings. Each piece of art we passed now vibrated the expectation of the same respect.  Each had been invested in by its creator, and there was something there for us to see.  My friend spoke with passion, smiling, his eyes alive, exploring the galleries around us, urging us to see what he sees.

I recognized the truth and my eyes were opened for a while.  It is, of course, being fully present, being patient enough to take in what is really in front of you.  It is a commitment.  It is sitting across from someone you love and actually giving attention as a gift.   It is relaxing back into the park bench, taking in the green around you, savoring the first sip of rich coffee.  It is feeling the warmth of the sand, the hand in your hand, the sun on your shoulder, the sweat trickling into the small hollow of your neck.

Each of us is a work invested in by our Creator.  There we’ll find the richness of life if we look up from our screens, or away from our list, and engage, ask ourselves the questions, and touch the creation.

Last night I held a baby for the first time in a while, longer than I can describe.  His presence demanded the presence of the man who held him.  Little squirming, intense person, insatiable.  His dreams, like his skin, unblemished, deep brown eyes, anxious to see what we see.  Some lyrics floated by; ‘We were born with our eyes wide open, so alive with wild hope…’

I looked out the window, almost ready to rise up from the mattress and come downstairs to write these words.  The frame held the trees, the charcoal lawn, the shroud of fog dimming the details, teasing me to search to see more.  And I thought of David Grey’s song ‘Silver Lining’.

Hope this finds you looking long,

David

Copyright © 2015 David Smith