Cameraman sways to remember how the eye dances

The Small French Paintings were lovely. A few were studies, a few were simply smaller than normal. The one that made me stop and look at it on a different level was a still life, Three Peaches on a Plate. It had an almost photo-realist quality, though it dates back to the nineteenth century, well before the advent of photography. I think the stark simplicity appealed to me: the red-gold of the fruit contrasting with the white of the plate. I could almost smell that painting.

The brushwork was exquisite, very fine. I think that to appreciate a painting, you have to get as close to it as you possibly can, then step back and view the whole again, as the sum of its parts.

Paint, I've always believed, is a very passionate medium. The amount of restraint that is involved in using it to create a coherent image amazes me: you break down your subject to nothing but colors and then you put it back together on the canvas.

Wow.

It's another language entirely.

I've painted before. Don't get me wrong, I love paint. I love how a brush feels in my hand, how the paint feels on the brush, how my hand moves the brush against a surface. I know enough to understand that I have no fluency with paint: it is not my native language. Even speaking a few words is exhilirating. At the time I was painting, I could imagine myself losing the ability to speak English.

In the gift shop, I bought presents for Adam, who will be five years old in December. He likes art and says he wants to be an artist. I got him arty coloring books, and I'll pack them up with anything I can find to help him put colors on a page.

before - after