Art and other stories

I have always loved going to the gallery, I like to draw and paint. Simply, I have deep appreciation for art. And that's all there is and in my humble opinion, that reason is enough to tell people: I like art. Throughout the years, I have been trying to come up with the answers to questions such as: Who is your favourite artist? What period is your favourite? And perhaps because people ask these questions quite often, I noticed that what draws me to a specific piece is the composition and the colour scheme. Not a style, not an artist. Though I have to say, if I had to choose, it would be impressionism and painter? Perhaps Klimt. More than anything, I like exhibitions that focus on one specific artist that showcases their journey and trying to understand them as a person who produced the work I get to see.

This was just an introduction to my random train of thoughts I had today, while I visited the Kampa museum and saw the exhibition by Vaclav Spala called: Flowers. I felt the spark of inspiration and recorded a few paragraphs in my notes.

It was a series of still life paintings of bouquets of flowers in a vase. This man dedicated his life to capturing a similar scene as seasons changed and new buds flourished. He even made a chart where he tracked all of these paintings and then ranked them. That is something that I would totally do, had I had the dedication to paint only flowers. And that could never be me.

I have always admired the consistency of an artist. How year after year they would paint and would craft their style. The paintings represented their growth and trajectory. And to think that there are sketches, dirty palettes, half finished pieces that never made it to the gallery. 

In today's day and age, the are so many choices, and dare I say, even the need to stand out, the urge to be different. After all, we're in the middle of the attention economy. On one hand, I find it super rewarding, that we get to experience, explore such vast variety of ... anything? At the same time, I personally feel cornered and I wish I had the time and space and most importantly the determination to give up other paths. I wish I knew how it felt, what it really means when you love something to the point, you put your time and resources without having a tangible goal in mind or the guarantee that you will "make it". If the goal was ever to make it, if there was even a goal. Doing things out of pure selfish, self absorbed passion (in the most positive meaning way).

I was pre-conditioned to do things to achieve something, with a specific intention, a pragmatic outcome. It is so deeply wired in me, that I do not do things for pure pleasure. My actions need a purpose. Which is such a shame, sometimes I feel like abandoning the life I am currently living and just set myself free from modern expectations, the pressure of understanding the limited we have and just live for the sake of living. I suppose we all are different and whatever my way is, works for me. 

And last thought, I love that art is timeless. Its value is built purely on some sort of like valuation of human sensation and it's not something that be simplified to a formula. The product is tangible but its value is completely abstract and cannot be pre-determined. And I love that it can touch just anyone.

Upon further reflection, I am so happy that I felt the urge to write again, write something out of enthusiasm, spur of the moment. And in some ways, this could be my flower painting no 324.