MissTick
Thingish Things

A collection of memories…pictures gallery…free entrance for the public…priceless for the artists on display…I suspect any artist is somewhat narcissistic in regard to his art…I have this weird vision of them wandering the halls of their own exhibitions from time to time…looking at the works they’ve created…endless strokes…of brush…deepest sighs…of inspiration…certain works that they would stand by longer then the others…captured in the co-webs of memories of the moment of creation…it is not as much as how perfect the picture seems…it is more of how she’s being felt when she was being painted…some memories are never forgotten…even if covered in mud…or in cappuccino’s stains…or soaked wet in a water…or being dropped into the pile of fallen leaves…often we surprised to discover that the closest to the heart of an artist is the less perfect one...the first one ever…or maybe the smallest…the picture frame of Da Vinci’s Madonna in Louver is unbelievable tiny…it is lost somewhere on a huge wall that being exclusively allocated to the masterpiece. I would’ve missed it if not for the crowd gathered around…It is impossible to understand the meaning of the work…or to trace to the real life the face on the portrait…I believe, this is not what needed…for as long as the viewer can catch the reflection of the emotional wave, that swept over the shore and left the footprints in the sand filled with watercolours…the artist will always be a part of collection in someone’s memory…

We do create a personal gallery throughout our life…a collection of portraits, landscapes, objects, visions…and while these are just imaginary pictures, they are reflections of the moments…masterpieces, perfect or not…and from time to time we would wander the long corridors and take a look at them again…old faded photos…child’s scribbles…first letter we wrote…some will look at them and sigh in regret that days are gone…others will be inspired to set up a canvas and find that old brush again…