Impression, Sunrise by Claude Monet [Impressionism]
It was here, where, like meek boats merely drifting through the water, a girl was only moving forward as a natural consequence to the uncontrollable nature of happenings around her. I don’t recall much, if anything, from this blip of consciousness. I was impressionable, my palette dressed only in subdued tones of lazy, persistent blues and the occasional bitterness of a lemon-yellow tart. As I would passively rest before the evening lake and my toes would flirt with the dancing heads in the waters, the miniature waves and the soft glints of light would all lose themselves in the circular motion of time. Eyes up to the sky, it was only one source of clarity that spoke to me. But still, it was here where my colors bled into the insecure brushstrokes of the landscape, and thoughts struggled to stay in place without becoming diluted, polluted. In my atmosphere, there was no self-control as the rhythm of my days relied on the temperature of my emotions, or the sudden beatings of the early-summer weather.
Like Monet’s blurry vision in translating the impressions made upon him by his view of Le Havre, my individual growth arose from my own ability to translate my confrontations and observations into recognizable beauty. There is no enduring tradition left behind to contour, the canvas asks for hasty mistakes and embodies a process from beginning to unfinished. This was when I attempted to paint over the imprinted marks upon my blank, begging canvas of my youth to capture the transient memories of becoming. I was unfinished, fragile-seeming but fierce in my own rights. Impressionable was me.
The Scream by Edvard Munch [Expressionism]
Like an artist, I mulled over my own body in the dimensions of space. I would ask myself, am I just a part of the landscape? Pushed over like the rest of the lines, following tails in one direction? Does my figure influence nature - or is it always nature that forces itself upon my being and controls the structure of all my thoughts? Am I a reaction, a product of that around me - individuality lost in translation?
Trapped, the enclosing frame had pushed me enough to release the uncertainty of my internal emotions and suddenly pour out in a seemingly timeless stretch of nature. I could keep walking along this endless bridge, or I could just pause for one minute and breathe in the present beauty and purpose of what was around me. A mixing of overwhelming loudness and a more beautiful kind of chaos invaded my interpretations of the past. There was a sudden, all-powerful sense of nature calling onto the bare tints of my human form. It was a deliberate choice, my sudden awakening. Eyes up to the sky, strokes of tempera red seared through space as if the blushing sunset was alive just for me. It was only myself that seemed to pause and bask in this greatness, stealing nature’s colors to create my next painting. I dipped my blistered fingers into the falling gold of the day’s final grand epiphany. Expression engulfed me.
Krishna Spring in Kullu by Nicholas Roerich [Spiritualism - unspecified]
My style does not conform to Impressionism or Realism, Cubism or Surrealism, because I am too consumed by seeking salvation in exploration. If I seem pretentious, it is because I want to be radically avant-garde. Because now, I am no longer trapped inside an ornate gold frame with my insides displayed to the glares of passerby. I am the director of my own aesthetics, the creator of my own illusions.
What I see now is still nothing concrete, but I feel guided by the exaggerated hopes of a life meant-to-be. Under the shade with my bare back leaning against the flower trees, I rest with the stretch marks of my skin harmonizing with the grace of aging bark. In the distant landscape there are mountains and raggedy valleys, unpredictable slopes and peaks that do not dare to interfere with the atmosphere of my own creations. Though grounded and all too introverted, the breeze carries my presence into dimensions unknown to even myself. There is no end to my painting; every thick brush of impasto and every loose accident of a watery hue is still me, I am, perpetually unfinished.