I don't understand what's so great about Picasso's drawings. They're considered some of the greatest art pieces ever, but I don't get it. I bet I could draw them myself.
These are the thoughts that flow through my head as I meander my way down the schools' art exhibition. I didn't expect any of the student's pieces to be good. We're students, Jesus. But the sheer amount of people explaining "the purple in the left corner represents the struggles of infertility" or something else so unbelievably pretentious makes my stomach collapse onto itself from the force of trying not to laugh. They're all trying way too hard to seem like they know what they're talking about.
I don't care about art, so why am I here? To laugh at these starry-eyed dreamers of course. Art isn't going to let them succeed in life, so what's the point? The echoing, narrow halls reverberate the talk of "passion" and "emotion" yet taste sterile. Wall upon wall upon wall of starchy canvasses slopped with iridescent paints, creating a mess incapable of expressing emotion. Yet these dreamers shine so brightly as if these pieces could rival even the finest pieces and rack in the dollar bills. Blinding. Sickening.
"Passion". I don't believe it exists. If you want good grades, you study. But why art? It's not going to help you in life. It's just going to burden you, then you'd be kicking yourself for not doing something actually useful, like science or math.
I was so lost in thought that I only just realised my feet had stopped careening down the hall. I had stopped before a painting. On the white sterile walls surrounded by haphazard splashes of paint was... something. Something interesting, captivating, artistic. The ginormous window opened a doorway to a yellow circle. It seemed to glow like hot metal, tinted orange around the edges, blending throughout yellow and white. Upon closer inspection, the circle seemed to be dripping like a thick, hot liquid. Honey or sap dripping from the roundness.
Around the circle, the paints slashed on thick and rough, making the metallic glow of the circle seem like it was appearing from another dimension that resides beyond the canvas. The thick paints rippled black and blue, like saltwater waves, hinted with specks of yellow and white, reflecting the glow, waving like a vast ocean on the gloomiest of days.
The right corner glistened with metal bars as if this scene takes place off the coast of a beach. I'm on the cliff above, grasping onto the cold bars, peering over the edge more and more as the cold winds mix with the heat of the glowing sun and hits my face. My hair soaks with sweat and water, flowing down my salty face and onto my chapped lips. The redness of the breeze carries the earthy smell of burning charcoal. Swirling around me like a tornado of yellows, whites and red.
The sun glows brighter, dripping with metallic honey, calling me. It calls me forward. My ears fill with the windy whistles, hair lashes back and forth against my scalp, eyes tear up from the heat and the cold, becoming blurrier and blurrier. As I lean towards the dripping dew, my fingers feel the heat, about to graze through the portal and--
"Do you like it?"
I blink. The atmosphere becomes sterile again. There are walls upon walls of canvasses dancing with colours, telling stories of their own. But the one in front of me reverberates like a portal to another world. A tingling-wet feeling slithers down my cheek and onto my neck; a tear. Why? Why do my eyes feel sore? Why does my chest beat so loudly? Why do I no longer hear the ringing of nonsensical dreamers but instead the soothing jazz of passion?
How did art invoke such emotion in me?
"Hi! Do you like my piece?"
I turn to my left, where a squat girl stands. Her eyes don't gleam like the others: they burn like the metallic sun. Her hair flows like the ocean waves. Her fingers dance like the winds as she fiddles with them. Her eyes dash from left to right like an ice skater on jetpacks.
"It's beautiful"
