I like talking to her.
I really do. It kind of feels like going home and that’s one of the reasons I like her.
Anyway, so went with the folks to the National Gallery today. I realized two things:
1) I don’t like everything Van Gogh did, I don’t like ‘The Sunflowers’s
2) I love Renoir, I don’t like divisionism, its to clean and sanitized and the colors stay in the lines. What’s the fun in that?
I like impressionism, it’s the closes expression to my own head as there ever can be, the colors (thoughts) swirl and when peer straight at it, it doesn’t make sense, it hurts my head. Take a step back; see the gestalt. It makes sense, I feel good. I like being able to step back and appreciate everything in a whole, there are brush strokes that suck and are terrible but still are part of the whole and they fit for better or for worse; heck, if those sucky strokes weren’t there, the picture would be incomplete.
So fine, life isn’t hunky-dory and it isn’t clean, its not divisionistic but step back and its fabulous (such a
I’m actually on my own in 5 years and I feel fine (god damn it, this always reminds me of James Brown!)
I think for all my bitching and moaning about the Ex and all the shed/unshed tears and the pain, I am better off. I think that month was the sucky stroke in my life.
And I guess part of growing up is knowing there will be more sucky strokes, heck there may be a whole series of them, but even though there is no rational way of knowing it, I know I will be fine.
I sound like a hippy.
And that too, is fine
Anyway, enough on that, as much as I love impressionism, it rubs off on my, my head starts going all fuzzy, and I kind of being to look at everything around me an impressionist would, nothing is clear but a swirl of colors. Oh and another thing, these are the only paintings I can actually hear. Like take this one:
I can hear it, I can walk on those cobble stones. Anyway, have a huge print in my room, hope to find my equivalent of this somewhere, some day