A piece of art in front of us, by a man named Paul Kenton, the piece being called the Summit. I sit on the bench in front of it, finding my eyes watching the peak of the mountain depicted in the artwork. If I look at it long enough, it looks as if the sky around it is moving, the lighting of the room helps the image come to life.
"You see it moving, don't you?" Owen's whisper reaches me and I nod, refusing to move my gaze from the painting. "It's due to what he uses as a canvas. Instead of the usual medium, he uses metal sheets." I nod along to what he is saying, admiring the artwork. The luminosity of the metal shines through, creating the effect of the sun bouncing off the gossamer snow. This unique texture, coupled with its incredible size, can bring any large space to life. This particular summit is that of Mount Blanc, the tallest mountain in the Alps.
Looking to my left, I see another piece by Paul Kenton, called New York Nightfall. Using sharp, small, and colorful accents, the artist has brought the gritty hustle of New York City to life accentuated by the representation of light, which has always been a key medium for his breath-taking cityscapes. The Manhattan skyline comes alive with the dazzling lights and their reflection on the river, creating a feeling of both calm and excitement. Originally painted on metal, the artist uses oil paint that can go up to 20 layers. Kenton leaves some of the metal exposed which gives another dimension to light, allowing it to reflect surrounding surfaces. All the light is emphasized from the darkness, creating a beautiful strong contrast.
I find myself becoming lost in the imagery, trying to picture myself with the freedom I have had for the last two days and being able to travel to places like those in these art pieces. Exploring new cities, experiencing the culture of other countries, and enjoying life to my fullest ability. I shake my head to myself, not wanting to have a relapse similar to that of earlier in the kitchen with Owen.
Glancing back to my right, I see his own eyes scanning over the Summit art piece still, as if trying to calculate the number of brush strokes it took, or how the lighting and metal canvas causes the effect of the still life to be moving to the naked eye. Those molten silver eyes, hidden behind black-rimmed glasses, seem to shimmer like the paint on these canvases - my heart skipped a beat for a moment.
Owen, sitting in this art gallery, is a work of art, one of perfection. Being lost in the world of art, watching from a short yet discreet distance, I can't help but be captivated by his presence - the way he could capture the world's attention with a simple wave of his hand or a stern look with those eyes. His profile is a portrait of concentration, his eyes scanning and tracing the intricate brushwork with a sense of wonder.
At that moment, his stillness mirrors the tranquility of the gallery, the soft classical music playing in the background while people mill around, their whispers disappearing into the air. The soft glow of the gallery's lighting plays upon his features, casting a warm aura around him, mimicking a halo around his head - a heavenly view for anyone passing by. His fingers are relaxed, resting in his lap, tapping away to the melody of the piano playing over the speakers. He is creating his art, him becoming a vessel of creation, without moving a muscle.
His presence exudes a quiet reverence for the art, a deep appreciation that transcends words. It is as if he was in dialogue with the artist, listening to the silent stories that the painting held, why he had chosen this mountain at this moment to paint it. His face bores the faintest hint of a smile, that signature millimeter smile I have seen a handful of times over the past two days, it being a testament to the joy he found in the art that surrounds him.
As I observe Owen, I can't help but admire the way his spirit seems to meld with the beauty of the gallery, him blissfully unaware of the artwork he is himself. It is a precious moment, one where he is entirely unaware of my presence, lost in the enchanting world of art. It is at that moment, that I realize how fortunate I am for where I have been placed during this situation back home, for whom I have been placed to live with.
YOU ARE READING
eyes don't lie
Fanfiction(Rewrite of Academy's Angels 2020 rendition) Following the tragic loss of her mother, seventeen-year-old Malina is ensnared in a household governed by her abusive father. Determined to escape the stifling grip of fear and suffering, she clings to he...
