he's a portrait {frerard}

Art, 2/2

-Anthony's point of view-

It was like every day, me scouring through the many pieces of art, the splotches of paint mixing with terrible greys that people thought to be unique and even have the urge to give them an official title.

Some paintings are gorgeous and deep; they flow easily and get to you. But some are just grey. Dull and empty, meaningless and having no point in life -similiar to my existence. I'm so tired of seeing them constantly entered in here, the poor sap that gives them pity and the money the so called 'artist' doesn't deserve.

I look around and see many things -creative or not, it's still called art. Some of which are beautiful, attracting to the eye and make you stare forever, i just wish some people were the same way, beautiful enough to look at for hours.

But others are hideous and dark. Whether it be plain, original, un-talented, or quite a bit morbid.

Some are sculpted and some are illusions. I'll admit, I'm not a fan of illusions or abstract paintings whenever they don't make sense and you can't get anything out of it. Sometimes, most of the time, there doesn't even have to be a meaning, or a meaning is even needed, which is why a title is pointless.

I tour here for days and days, getting inspired a little once more, although my art itself was grey and dull. It had no flavor, no prominence, nothing that could change a look of direction. They're just lines. Just lines that move across, under, above, behind. They're supposed to show some sort of hidden object, but nothing comes up. People say they see things in it, but I disregard and tell them they've lost it.

Yes, my art hangs in the galleries, this very one in Belleville, New Jersey. But just because it's in the art gallery, doesn't mean it needs to be. Or is necessary or even deserves to be.

Maybe the most ridiculous part is that sometimes you can't get in new art, so they put in photographs. Photography could no be considered art; no, it's not taking a pencil and creating something. It's just mindlessly snapping a picture, something involving no worth of creativity.

I scoffed, glancing outside toward the dark grey skies and wind whirling in the leaves of the trees.

I thought about the many hopeless, even homeless, kids outside, but quickly shook it off as nothing of even worth worrying over or wasting my time to think about.

All that was important was this room and these enclosed warm walls. Taking a gentle sigh and closing my eyes, for once wanting to consider welcoming a type of free-ness in my clouded, chaotic mind.

But I gave up, opening my eyes, deciding it's not worthy of trying to not focus about my death or everything wrong.

Then once while I was strolling the gallery for the millionth time in my life, a boy with raven hair was staring longingly at a drawing. A very familiar drawing to me. He seemed to be the only thing that popped out in the place, despite the colorful aroma of paintings against his dark hair.

What does he see in that piece? That art is hideous and terrible, why is he so curious about it? He seemed enhanced, charmed even, at the simple doodle that even a toddler could make up. Shaking my head, I tried to wrap my brain around how someone could be so captivated by that. That art. A piece that doesn't even deserve the respectable title of being called 'art'. Art was beautiful, these doodles weren't even close, they couldn't even compare to the style of such beauty that art was capable of expressing.

His footing was froze, arms hanging at his sides and you could see nothing of his face, but his dark hair and clothing.

Who is this boy?

And what does he find so fascinating about a dull portrait?