Monday, July 27, 2009

I've been to the Tate Modern. It made me feel cool.





Quattro Stagioni

Morning! I'm going to start this story at the very beginning, as I was once told it was a very good place to start. Can't quite remember by whom however, but we shall push on!

There once was a young girl who had grand ideas about the adventures she would partake of, once she was old enough, and had more than $3.15 in her piggy bank. She dreamt of rolling, lush mountains in Austria, wildflowers as far as the eye could see in Germany, brilliant white snow falling softly on the window panes in Scotland, and munching on pastries as light as a feather in a jazzy cafe in France. Little did she know she would be lucky enough to enjoy these dreamer's delights, with SO much more added in. Like exploring tiny little boutiques while living on Upper Street in Islington, sipping a minty mohjito with the lovely Carrie in a small pub discovered by chance, and eating fresh mountain strawberries in Austria while hiking in thongs. Not the best outdoor footwear, she would agree now, but at they time they seemed quite satisfactory. And perhaps the best of all, a discovery of cakey chocolately delights, manufactured by the GENIUS Marks and Spencer, to be eaten by the tubful.

One of these adventurous days, whilst wandering around London town, she started to trek towards the Tate Modern. 'I'm an artist! Well, sort of', she thought to herself as she slipped her way in her thongs over the bridge. 'I also must consider new footwear', came next, with 'cakey chocolatey delights would be stellar right now', followed by 'the Tate Modern! Splendid!' She walked hesitantly towards the large glass doors, aware that walking into sheet glass was not uncommon, and was met with the hush of creative beings that have been silenced by pure inspiration. The cavernous hall drew her in, and she lay her eyes upon artistic delights that both inspired and confused her. But it was a collection of four paintings hung side by side that caught her eye and her heart. The colours, and the text, and the emotion all captivated her. She sat in front of them, considering how they each individually caught a moment in time and threw it into the viewer's mind with stunning accuracy, and yet, as a whole, they encompassed an entire year of change and similarity.

She didn't want to leave, but the guard was looking at her suspiciously and besides, she was hungry, so she picked up her things and hesitated as she turned. The colours reached out to her, the fast and brusque brushstrokes held her attention, and she realised she was seeing art for real, for the first time. 'Because really', she thought to herself, 'seeing real art has nothing to do with seeing at all.' She thought how clever she was for thinking this profound thought, and decided if given the chance, she would write this down sometime.

And so, the young girl headed back out into the bright grey light near the Thames and slipped around a bit more, with an eager spirit for more adventures, all the while repeating over and over in her head the name of the artist she would never forget. Cy Twombly.

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