A friend asked a question on social media.
"What pieces of art have you seen in person that moved you?"
The cascade of responses reminds me of those fleeting moments when I have been struck by the emotion expressed in stone, or paint, or in my case, fabric. I have meandered through quilt shows where other
people seemed capable of small talk, and all I could do was breathe.
I have a friend who stood at the feet of The David. Another beheld the Pietà. A woman recently described what it meant to be in the audience for Come From Away.
The comments reminded me of those sources of wonder that I have missed. Things like dishes and shuttling children to a friend's house filled my days, and I forgot to pursue
beauty.
The embarrassing fact is that I have not chased those opportunities. When my twins asked to go to NYC to see a show, I was more concerned about their safety than the riveting experience of Broadway. Thankfully, they were smarter than I.
I notice that words fall short when it comes to describing The Kiss, or Starry Starry Night. Wikipedia tries, of course, but no one would fall for the ruse that an evening of reading
articles online could be a substitute for one in a gallery.
What a miracle it is, to live in a world where sculptors and composers and quilters have emotions that spill beyond their fingers and ears. The supply of feelings seems oddly inexhaustible, since any number of crowds can listen or look and be impacted too.
One person said that it is not that art impresses her brain, but rather speaks directly to her heart. I like skipping
the middle man.