A blank canvas sits in the art museum. A timeless, endless sheet, save for the one unwavering line of green. A deep green makes its way from one end to the other, curving around the edges and coming to an abrupt stop once the painting meets the plastered wall. To some, it can hardly be called a painting; in fact, it shouldn’t even be hung here at all. But to others, it draws them in.
An art student patiently takes notes on the nuances of the piece, their eyes wandering again and again over the line’s stretch. A restless psychologist who makes their way to the modern art exhibit relishes every connotation the art nods to. A tired and maybe lost visitor for the day stands before the art in search of respite.
All three leave the piece, knowing something they hadn’t before. Learning nothing, but noticing a timely presence, that was only waiting for them to pay it heed.
A note in the journal, an emotion replenished on the face, a greater discovery of self. Nearly grotesque in its simplicity, and yet we weave the deep green line into our lives repeatedly, sometimes without meaning to.
A supernaturality, not in the painting, but found in ourselves.
An art student patiently takes notes on the nuances of the piece, their eyes wandering again and again over the line’s stretch. A restless psychologist who makes their way to the modern art exhibit relishes every connotation the art nods to. A tired and maybe lost visitor for the day stands before the art in search of respite.
All three leave the piece, knowing something they hadn’t before. Learning nothing, but noticing a timely presence, that was only waiting for them to pay it heed.
A note in the journal, an emotion replenished on the face, a greater discovery of self. Nearly grotesque in its simplicity, and yet we weave the deep green line into our lives repeatedly, sometimes without meaning to.
A supernaturality, not in the painting, but found in ourselves.
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