Work Text:
-The painting.-
I start to think, nothing out of the ordinary, and my thoughts begin to wander.
This feels like moving in a painting, I think. Right here and now, my perspective changes and I’m the viewer, looking at my own self, my life.
I think about paintings. I like them.
Careful, tiny brushstrokes that contribute to a beautiful abstract painting, and I am in the center of it. Like an animated figure, moving with the paint, over the canvas, but never exiting the frame.
An existing full of obliviousness, a freedom that never reaches beyond the outside of the frame. A freedom that is limited but not enough to be noticed.
All the feelings and emotions somehow dulled by the paint and the colors are never fully able to bring them to life, no matter how hard they try. They can’t quite catch the emotions properly, as if the moment it gets painted down, it feels somehow unexplainable wrong.
It’s a beautiful thought though, isn’t it? The color palette is warm, with an underlying freezing cold to it. Lots of brown tones and pale colors, never vivid but still lively.
Stuck in time, they’d say. The paintings are all greatly detailed, however the brush type is rather big, creating a thicker color layer each stroke.
The eyes are always a catchy element in the paintings, the whole face, actually. They’re never directly looking straight ahead at the viewer, always brushing by. Always there, but seemingly never fully aware of its presence.
A new move, a new brush stroke. Every action comes with a changing in the painting, always eager to catch up to the movements. Like millions and millions of various strokes of paint to animate every frame to create a full picture.
Every moment, memory and experience - painted. Every emotion carefully catched and kept, painted down.
Its an old painting. They all are. Stocked in your grandparent’s attic, leaning against the wall.
Now dead, as a thick layer of dust covers the surface and extinguishes all life and light that ought to be there. It’s been some time since someone has been up here, as you can tell by the lack of fresh air and the amount of dust.
The paintings rest in a corner, seemingly forgotten and appear strangely out of place. The layers of paint that cover the canvas are merely visible now, the dust making the color look grey.
Now you could say the painting is stuck in time.
The catchy eyes lost their spark and maybe we begin to wonder whether the color has always been so dull.
Maybe there wasn’t anything special to it after all.