It was my first journalistic assignment; I was to cover an art exhibition.
“You artist?” I heard a male voice ask in heavily-accented English.
“No,” I said with becoming modesty.
“You interested in art very much.”
“Yes,” I said, hoping I carried the burden of knowledge lightly.
There was a large canvas with a sea and a boat. I stood before it for what seemed like hours.
He asked me what I found so interesting. At that point, Descartes must have sent me huge vibes for I deconstructed it for him, shred the canvas into little pieces of sheer nonsense that sounded amazingly good.
“It is a sea and there is a boat,” he responded blandly.
I looked at him with pity. “Surely you realise it cannot be just that?”
“Maybe, maybe, but it is.”
I shrugged and challenged him, “So, are you interested in art?”
“Yes," he said. "And I am the artist. I have painted this.”
The art connoisseur would have died the day she was to take birth. Instead, I laughed at myself sitting on the steps of the gallery. I looked up at the clouds and saw faces in them. My art was alive and changing shape with every blink of the eye...
"Art is not imitation, but illusion." - Charles Reade