I have been thinking about arts for the past couple of months...about the beauty it emanates, how it plays with the emotions and rises our thoughts...amazing...its even more amazing because I can't understand most art, I am blind to the beauty and is usually baffled, failing to identify the meanings that are hidden beneath the obvious...I read about art, I listen to it, I see it, but I can't feel it...so that's me.
Now, coming back to the story, I was sitting in this classroom of a school for attending an exam. It was a 11th grade classroom. I was sitting in a chair beside a desk and writing, afterwards something else caught my attention. Art, in its raw and crude form, telling stories, emotions, heartbreaks, ideas, and debates to me. I was like an archaeologist who had found some ancient cave paintings. I leaned in to see it and there before me were pictures drawn with pencils, pens, and compasses, carving of such elegance, designs of such magnificence. I saw a designer, an artist, a script-er, an architect, a lover, a poet, attempting their frustrations or creativity on that slab of wood as their canvas, mostly to escape the boredom of an infinite lecture. Each one of them had a story to tell. I could see many messages to lovers, something I guess that was never said. Many broken hearts that were bleeding. Many gangs with their epic tales of glory. Many equations which gave them a rope to climb out of the hell they went through. Each had a story of its own. And this, I could understand, having gone through exactly these same stages years before. And I felt art, it took me back to memories and emotions attached to it. It made me feel stuff I had forgotten for years. And finally I understand art. What masterpieces couldn't do was achieved by this raw fresh carvings. I see it now.
Now, coming back to the story, I was sitting in this classroom of a school for attending an exam. It was a 11th grade classroom. I was sitting in a chair beside a desk and writing, afterwards something else caught my attention. Art, in its raw and crude form, telling stories, emotions, heartbreaks, ideas, and debates to me. I was like an archaeologist who had found some ancient cave paintings. I leaned in to see it and there before me were pictures drawn with pencils, pens, and compasses, carving of such elegance, designs of such magnificence. I saw a designer, an artist, a script-er, an architect, a lover, a poet, attempting their frustrations or creativity on that slab of wood as their canvas, mostly to escape the boredom of an infinite lecture. Each one of them had a story to tell. I could see many messages to lovers, something I guess that was never said. Many broken hearts that were bleeding. Many gangs with their epic tales of glory. Many equations which gave them a rope to climb out of the hell they went through. Each had a story of its own. And this, I could understand, having gone through exactly these same stages years before. And I felt art, it took me back to memories and emotions attached to it. It made me feel stuff I had forgotten for years. And finally I understand art. What masterpieces couldn't do was achieved by this raw fresh carvings. I see it now.
