Yesterday, I wrote about my pen-friend Urate. She was an artist, and one of the things she sent me was a book of art from the national museum in Lithuania. Aside from the random art museum field trip, this was the closest I got to fine art. It was also a non-English language dip into Art History, because it was organized chronologically. I can still sound out “Portrait” in Cyrillic because I continued to try to teach myself the alphabet.
A good bit of the visual art – the paintings – that are in my soul live in the glossy pages of this little 8″x8″ hardback book.
I was always a storyteller. Mulling over names of cities and towns on my globe was a good time. Flipping through an art book I couldn’t understand was a good time. It gave me things to imagine. Stories to make up. Ideas to wonder over. I’ve scanned just three of the images from this book, but I could have scanned every one. Each portrait, each hint of a smile. Each sweeping landscape. They all spoke to me. They all had their own stories.
I’m not going to add commentary. I’ll let you do that for yourself, just like I did.