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But a snapshot of the whole. Not the fine textured brushstrokes. But the feeling of the breeze stirring the leaves in the trees. Not the bright colorful eyes. But the feling of the happy or melancholy soul behind them. It isn't the genre or school of thought time places it in. It's the wonderment at what the subjects would say to see the painting hanging upon this wall. What thoughts swirled among their minds. What fears for the future drove their days. What tragedy so besought the small child looking so sorrowful. The painting to me is not the pieces, the canvas, the oils, the style or the frame holding it together. The painting is life frozen in time. A gift to life's posterity. A living breathing entity striving to tell a story. If only we'd stop to listen. |