Art


Smuck, smuck, the un-suction of my, her, his, our barefeet on the cold, hard, shiny linoleum tiles. Short walk, loud creak, enter a chilly room. A room filled with, seemingly, no life. But, after the first initial glance, it bursts. Each picture tells a story of that captured moment. Each pasteled painting a blurred memory. Each different, yet with the same goal-to evoke emotion from the observer. The memory one feels when observing the little child playing on teh beach. Each memory a different beach, but still include the gritt of sand upon legs, arms, and toes, the smell of fish, the squeem of seaweed and seaguls. Each including the same elements but thought of differently. There is also the idea of storied memories. A memory that you yourself do not raelly remember, but only believe you do because you have been told the story SO many times. I have one of a time when I was young. My great uncle used to comevisit us-before he became spiteful-or maybe he already was and didn’t show it-but he would give us these cellophane wrapped candies. I don’t really know if I remember it, but I believe I have forced memory from a story. Such a pity, it would be a great memory. But makes me wonder how many of my other memories are not really my memories. How many of my most precious thoughts are not things that I really remember happening. It’s a scary idea to toy with. Because once you start thinking, there’s not an easy way to stop, really. You might go and question your entire childhood, and ask every family member if you remember correctly, and will still think you are wrong.

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