If by some miracle or act of the almighty I became skilled with a paintbrush, I know exactly what I would paint.
Shapes once rigid break from their silhouettes to babble and curve. The hues of life are both softened and amplified. The Sun’s light dances – skipping like stones – in the rippling reflections of the world’s creeks and streams.
Maybe I could wish upon a shooting star for a Freaky Friday incident with someone more advanced, artistically, than I (past avant-garde stickfiguring).
Something like this painting, by Norwegian Impressionist Frits Thaulow in 1901, would be my inaugural artistic work. I first saw Thaulow’s work at the Philadelphia Art Museum, when Water Mill was on display. The water born from the tip of his brush seemed to be from a different dimension than the structures which laid in its reflection. The thought of it today in class inspired many a doodle in my notebook, but none could quite capture the beauty I sought, If only, if only…