My soul is the emotional translator of these paintings of old, telling me stories of their sorrow and joy.
If you let the artists sing to you though their pictures, the music is the most sublime.
Art that spoke of mountains and freedom were placed upon a white-washed wall in city that knew neither.
It is the bitterest of irony to convert the language of my heart into money; but I gotta eat and pay the gallery. It feels each time as if someone has asked to purchase my love. As if such a thing could ever work.
The art upon the gallery wall I see as polaroids of emotion, the sort of communication that could take volumes of the written word to convey... and even then, not nearly so well.
What the art brings cannot be weighed or measured, neither can the transfer of deep emotional intelligence be bought. Art is a gift to us all.
There was no money in those frames, only emotions in picture form; I could feel the artist speaking through the ages in the language of the soul.
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