These paintings walked around so sick of it all.
“This one is so damn traditional,” said the painting, on the observation of a preacher in his Sunday’s best, “I just don’t know what to even think of it. It doesn’t challenge me, it doesn’t provoke me, I feel like I’ve seen this trope a million times over.”
“Okay,” said another painting, “But at least it makes sense. This one is so abstract.”
The painting referenced a human in torn denim, purple lipstick, probably thirty overall piercings and ‘daddy issues’ tattooed on its chest.
“It’s so abstract,” said the painting, “I feel like this human is trying too hard to make a statement, but the statement itself isn’t that strong.”
On the other side of the human gallery, another painting just stared at a different human, completely consumed. The painting was encapsulated by it. It felt as if time were standing still and moving so quickly, all in the same instant.
The human had his hands tucked in its acid wash jeans. It wore a white v-neck t-shirt and smoked cigarettes like that was its core function. Pretty standard Americana kind of thing going on, but he had these absorbing greyish blue eyes that the painting couldn’t look away from. The eyes were in motion. Like some great thunderstorm traveling slowly across an evening sky.
The painting felt something it had never felt before. It was as if the human was alive. As if buried behind those stormy sky eyes was a soul desperately reaching out, trying to connect.
“They say art is dead,” said the painting, “But this. This is alive.”
COPYRIGHT BRICE MAIURRO 2016