I wrote in one of my previous posts that my parents had a lot of art albums with reproductions of paintings from different galleries. Peter Bruegel, Diego Velazquez, Rubens, Bosch, Vermeer, Picasso, Kandinsky, Malevich, Mark Shagal, Van Gogh, Monet and Manet, Renoir. I would spend hours looking at the fine details on the dress of a young infanta, or ugly faces and bodies on the paintings by Bosch, or a dog on the table during the village festival by Peter Bruegel. I still remember the names of the paintings and the artists themselves. I loved reading the descriptions of those paintings which helped me see the details I wouldn’t have paid attention to otherwise.
The museums of modern art in Moscow, Paris, Montreal, Toronto and Dallas left me speechless with a feeling that my life will never be the same. I thought I had some understanding of art, that I had that secret knowledge of what art should be, but after seeing those paintings and installations, I realized that I know nothing and I shouldn’t even try to understand. I should just feel it.
I went to a lot of art exhibitions. Sometimes I get it. Sometimes I don’t. Often I want to know what the artist was trying to say. I wish I could have an explanation next to every painting. Just like in my literature class I would try and speculate and make guesses. But sometimes I let go and watch and feel. And that is more than enough.