It was about the fifth week, give or take a week or three. He strode into the room, late as usual, coffee cup in one hand and an unlit cigerette dangling carelessly from his pale, dry fingers. He always wore sweaters that were too large and heavy, no matter the season, over crinkled chinos and muddy running shoes. His long straggly hair was partily hidden by a woven cap, his fully bearded face hidden even more behind coke-bottle glasses. His voice was thick and deep, heavy with a German accent, which made it even harder to pay attention in a 4-hour night class. Every Monday night, we had a date. Me, him, 13 or so other students, a projector and a screen. In a basement with no light. No breaks, no comic relief.

I always sat in the back. There was a nook, stage left of the projector, which hid two plastic, faded-pink seats. It was a good spot; I didn’t like to get called on when I wasn’t prepared. We were expected to keep detailed note cards about every slide and this guy was the master of test questions that were made to trip up the ill-equipped. I had just decided to change my major from pre-law to fine art (major change number six, I believe) and was struggling through my first art history course. I had no idea what this German bearded stranger was talking about with his painting movements, trompe l’oeils, chiaroscuro, and negative space. Ah, the Bauhaus. Yes. Sure. Andy Worhol must really like soup. The Kiss is an interesting interpretation of the relationship of a man and a women. Uh-huh.

As if it were slow motion, I remember the click of the projector changing to a new slide. The dramatic pause from the instructor. The steady hum from the bare light at the front of the room. A shifting of chairs. A cough. Annoyed at the silence (I preferred fast-paced, to-the-point instruction), I looked up from my notes. I’ve heard people say that art speaks to them; that they can hear the colors and almost see the artist create his work. They can physically feel emotion weeping from the art displayed before them. I did not believe them until this moment.

It wasn’t even a good replication of the painting—the projector bulb was old and therefore dimly lit all our slides for the evening. But there it was nonetheless. Poignant, broad strokes in blues and yellows filled the room. Swirls danced across the screen, depth of the brush shown completely in the shadows. The balance of the entire painting seemed off to me, and still does, but I think that’s why it feels so perfect. Looking at this painting, I felt art. I felt emotion, I heard the story. I sat and stared at that painting for the longest time and felt a tinge of regret when the slides changed again. I went home after class that night to find it online, just to catch another glimpse. It was amazing, breathtaking and overwhelming, all at once.

Suddenly, I had an understanding.

That’s when I fell completely in love with art. I’m absolutely terrible at any form of painting, sculpting, pottery, drawing…just ask my college roommates. But I feel like I found a place where I belong, finally, with photography. I yearn to create that image that speaks volumes to someone. Something that is so compositionally sound, creatively lit and exponentially amazingly exposed, that one can only sit and stare, trying to soak it all in. I’ve come so far, yet there is such a long way to go to get where I want to be.

Here’s to the journey.

Starry Night Over the Rhone, Vincent van Gogh 1888
oil on canvas

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