Art is something I hold dear in my
heart. The ideas a painter can express on a single canvas with a variety of
media, a form a sculptor releases from marble or bronze and the wondrous worlds
wood blocks can produce on a piece of parchment. Art is essential to my life
but also my writing.In my time in Graduate Program I have opted to pursue art
history and poetry as my key emphasis as well as getting a certificate in
museum studies. So to connect all of this together, as a requirement of my program
I have to do an internship and with that said mine has been taking place at the
local art museum. For me this museum has been a safe haven for me, a place
where inspiration can run wild, ideas can come and go, and where I can feel at
ease.
Today like all Sunday’s, I do part of
my internship there and it’s not what I would like to be doing (such as on
Friday, when I work with the registrar and actually handle artwork and catalog
it) but it’s something where I can get firsthand experience and meet
interesting people. I’m talking about working at the visitor’s desk selling
tickets and helping patrons. Not the most wonderful job but, I do enjoy myself
(the guy I work with, Alan makes the entire shift race by due to our similar
personalities and the mass quantity of stories we tell). One of the perks to
working on a Sunday is how slow the museum is towards the end of the day. Now
this may not seem like a perk but it allows to you time to take a walk around
the museum. With how bust I’ve been over the past nine months, I haven’t had
time like this to enjoy a walk through the galleries and halls that have
inspired me so much in the past. Today I took a leisurely walk through the
halls as tear down was being done for the annual Artball that was yesterday
night. Think of it as a yearly elegant night of art, food and dancing where all
the movers and shakers of the area come to converse……..It reminds me of a
painting that’s located in the impressionism hall entitled Dinner at the
Casino. During my walk, I was alone, the workers had left for break, patrons
long gone, I was by myself with hundreds and thousands of year’s worth of ideas
and portraits of single moments. A deep breath with my eyes shut, and I’m taken
back to the moment of inception of these works, the artists sitting or standing
in front of canvases, paint brush nestled securely in their hands, waiting for
that second when that first brush stroke hits. The calm blankets me while I
stand in front of Monet’s Lilies, and I think why I haven’t taken more time to
do this, to enjoy the moments I have so much in the days and months before school
and work got the best of me.
A quick glance at my cell phone and I
notice that it’s getting time for me to continue my journey from Europe to
America through the modern era and back to the visitors desk. Another glance
back through the halls that enshrine the Renaissance and Religious art, I shut
my eyes one more time allowing the echoes of my shoes hitting the wood floor to
take me away.
Monet Painting in his Garden
Inspired by Pierre-Auguste Renoir
The poppies are delightful in their
scarlet wraps
Violets court each other in twos
Thistle grass weaves between
interlocking petals
I remember this in such detail, the
French oil paint
Rests in streaks across the palette of
my mind
Where cross-legged on a stool, my
dream-self sits,
Stubbornly waiting for fresh brushes
“No, these will not work, the bristles
are frayed” he says out loud
Lilacs and spotted geraniums bow in
agreement from the garden before me
The blank canvas rests on the borrowed
easel from monsieur Monet
Who, standing nearby with his pastoral
landscape in germination,
Blue oil clots on petal’s edge, the
final brushstrokes dry in afternoon sun
Black suited gentlemen meander along in
awe
Their walking sticks clack on cobble-stone
sidewalks,
Like a fanfare for his masterpiece.
My dream-self appalled and even jealous
forgets his recent disgusts
His phantom digits align with mine
Brush to oil, Monet’s flowers bloom,
garden first, his canvas next
Claude himself even makes a guest
appearance,
Frozen in inception, struggling with
his unconscious on what to paint.
Written by Zach Moore- Copyright 2012
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