Day at the art museum
Ever wondered what you would be like as a painting. Where you would be placed in an art museum?
A canvas, slate or board you start out as. Then you are wiped down or fixed with a solid color beneath. This part of a start. Then the artist either draws on you, if they need to. Then the picking out of brushes.
What kind are needed? A big fat brush with a thick head or a light fan brush that flutters across the canvas? What will this artist choose? Or will there need to be chalk? Perhaps crayons or markers? Maybe it is pigments of flowers and sand.
Oh and the colors? Will there just be black and white? The stark differences to make a bold statement. Or will you have the three primary colors - red, blue and yellow playing across you? Perhaps all the colors of the rainbow touch your crevices, divots.
For me I am red. And blue. Violet and pale yellow. I mean that part of me on top of a bed of gray. Just look at me shine. Only the red thrives. All the other colors are muted towards this one color.
Are there faces or shapes? Did you have just lines that grasp the attention?
What is your story? What masterpiece are you? Where are you in the museum?
Tiny whispers that glide across blades of horsehair. Pigments of color grab hold and then splatter where I ask. Dancing their way across my life. Silently I giggle as they tickle me.
My corners not so restricting. I play the edges with scrolls. Figure eights and paisley to embrace this magnificent dash of red. Dare I ask for one long stare?
What do you think my story is? Where do you think I began? Was I cherished in a home with many others or did I sit on the fireplace collecting soot? Or perhaps I remained wrapped in brown parchment until yesterday.
Where did you belong?
Careful how long you look. My lines, my swirls may begin to question your eyes. Listen to my colors. Find the meaning of me.
Where was I all this time, before I came to this gallant wall? I was behind a tapestry. Woven by love and friendship. There is where I was. Hidden. Lost.
Then someone found me. Inquired my worth and decided I needed a permanent home with those who will treasure me. Oh how I sing now.
So many years lost. Yet today I had my debut. It was the first time I was capable of shining around so many. Not scared nor concerned if I may insult someone with my appearance.
Today I became known. My subdued colors, renewed. My shocking red stings the eyes. Oh how I dance across so many eyes.
I am here. My story is now heard.
So where was I placed?
Impressionism.
A canvas, slate or board you start out as. Then you are wiped down or fixed with a solid color beneath. This part of a start. Then the artist either draws on you, if they need to. Then the picking out of brushes.
What kind are needed? A big fat brush with a thick head or a light fan brush that flutters across the canvas? What will this artist choose? Or will there need to be chalk? Perhaps crayons or markers? Maybe it is pigments of flowers and sand.
Oh and the colors? Will there just be black and white? The stark differences to make a bold statement. Or will you have the three primary colors - red, blue and yellow playing across you? Perhaps all the colors of the rainbow touch your crevices, divots.
For me I am red. And blue. Violet and pale yellow. I mean that part of me on top of a bed of gray. Just look at me shine. Only the red thrives. All the other colors are muted towards this one color.
Are there faces or shapes? Did you have just lines that grasp the attention?
What is your story? What masterpiece are you? Where are you in the museum?
Tiny whispers that glide across blades of horsehair. Pigments of color grab hold and then splatter where I ask. Dancing their way across my life. Silently I giggle as they tickle me.
My corners not so restricting. I play the edges with scrolls. Figure eights and paisley to embrace this magnificent dash of red. Dare I ask for one long stare?
What do you think my story is? Where do you think I began? Was I cherished in a home with many others or did I sit on the fireplace collecting soot? Or perhaps I remained wrapped in brown parchment until yesterday.
Where did you belong?
Careful how long you look. My lines, my swirls may begin to question your eyes. Listen to my colors. Find the meaning of me.
Where was I all this time, before I came to this gallant wall? I was behind a tapestry. Woven by love and friendship. There is where I was. Hidden. Lost.
Then someone found me. Inquired my worth and decided I needed a permanent home with those who will treasure me. Oh how I sing now.
So many years lost. Yet today I had my debut. It was the first time I was capable of shining around so many. Not scared nor concerned if I may insult someone with my appearance.
Today I became known. My subdued colors, renewed. My shocking red stings the eyes. Oh how I dance across so many eyes.
I am here. My story is now heard.
So where was I placed?
Impressionism.
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