On Missing Art and Accademia

You never notice that you distanced yourself from a passion until you get to experience it again and you feel the void of what you left behind together with the new fire burning through you as the spark of what was lost is reignited. You realize that years went by and you left books unread, places unvisited, thoughts abandoned, dreams forgotten

Last week, I went to Paris for the first time. And it was in Paris that the life I had left behind was reignited with the pull of a gravitational force that was impossible to ignore. What have I been doing these years? I asked myself. When was my curiosity and my natural desire to learn replaced with a never ending to-do list, with other people’s expectations, with useless meetings, consumerism, and a desire to belong with people that diminished my light and that I had nothing in common with?

Such thoughts rushed through my mind, not heavily but clearly, as tears ran down my face when I contemplated the golden gates of Versailles and the brushstrokes of Monet’s paintings. I shivered at a memory 7 years prior of Notre Dame in flames, and yet here I was, standing in front of its stained glass windows. My body shook as I ran through the labyrinthine halls of the Louvre to see the delicacy of the Mona Lisa, the majesty of the Venus. And even when I rested between these magnificent discoveries, I couldn’t help but notice the simple but elegant coziness of Parisian cafes and I felt myself experiencing the wonder Gil had the first night he was taken to the artistic circle of the 1920s. I never thought any of this would be accessible to me, never thought that artworks that I had poured years of study and fascination on, artworks that brought in me a desire to live life to the fullest and explore everything that the world had to offer to me would be right in front of my eyes. And as I contemplated them, I thought. When did I forget myself to conform to the ideals of people? Of people that I didn’t belong with? When, in the end, didn’t matter. What mattered was that it happened. And as I ran from museum to museum, trying to capture as much as possible in the short amount of time I had, I focused on the present joy, the dimmed past, and what would become of me when I returned. Something needs to change, I thought. My passion couldn’t be restricted to be enjoyed 10 days a year and under the pressure of evanescence. History, art studies, museums, cafés, and literary analysis would not be exiled from my daily life.

And so, here we are, in a public journey of re-discovery. For those that want a more artistic life, welcome to the ride.