Making Sense of Sam Francis
In the Culture District of Fort Worth, Texas, there is a museum dedicated to modern art. Last weekend, I wandered through its quiet halls, taking in the colors and eccentricity of modern artists. I have developed a routine for this sort of thing (honed to perfection whenever my younger sister and I went to "artsy" places) It normally entails:
1. Walking slowly
2. Stopping in front of paintings
3. Tilting head at different angles.
4. Making some comment on the artist's use of color, or lack thereof.
Note: This routine is partly because I actually like museums. It is also partly because I like to fool all the rest of the museum occupants into thinking that I know what I am doing, while they are still clueless.
There were several modern art works that caught my eye, either for their eccentricity (aka complete randomness. How else am I supposed to describe a screen door with Abe Lincoln and a train light attached to it?) or strangely unnerving beauty (this describes the huge book with four foot long silvery white wings coming out each side). However, no other work caught my eye as much as an untitled painting by Sam Francis.
The painting is large, with one whole wall to itself. It is completely white, except for vibrant hues of red, green, yellow, and blue on the very edges. Sam Francis did not simply take a white canvas and paint some color on the edges. No, he painted the entire canvas white, then added the colors at the edges. The colors looked as though they wanted to move inward and cover the entire canvas with their vivid life. I wanted them to move too. I wanted that white canvas to be filled with color.
As I stood there looking at the empty painting I could not help thinking of a young Brasilian girl named Andresa. She prayed fervently and served God willingly every day because, as she said, "If I don't go, who will?" She was killed in a car crash at age 12, her purposeful life ended abruptly.
I thought of a young boy who drowned near my school when I was sixteen. He had family who loved him and mourned his death. He was so young, and so fragile. Who knows what he could have done with his life?
I thought of all those children who died in the Holocaust. Not just children, but teenagers, and young adults. Many of them were my age, on the brink of leaving their homes and building the lives of their dreams. The war and ensuing chaos took all of that away from them.
All of these people had painted a small bit of their life canvas. Anyone peeking could have seen the life at the edges, and foreseen that someday it would fill the entire canvas. Then something happened, whether it was a car crash, a swimming accident, or a terrible war, and there was no one left to fill that empty canvas. No one but the person who began it could tell where the colors were supposed to go. Those who came after them were left to ponder "What might have been?", just as I did when I contemplated the Sam Francis painting.
Eventually, I kept moving slowly through the gallery, tilting my head every now and then. A new realization and question followed me the rest of the afternoon, though. I have a life canvas. What am I going to do with it? What are you going to do with yours?
1. Walking slowly
2. Stopping in front of paintings
3. Tilting head at different angles.
4. Making some comment on the artist's use of color, or lack thereof.
Note: This routine is partly because I actually like museums. It is also partly because I like to fool all the rest of the museum occupants into thinking that I know what I am doing, while they are still clueless.
There were several modern art works that caught my eye, either for their eccentricity (aka complete randomness. How else am I supposed to describe a screen door with Abe Lincoln and a train light attached to it?) or strangely unnerving beauty (this describes the huge book with four foot long silvery white wings coming out each side). However, no other work caught my eye as much as an untitled painting by Sam Francis.
The painting is large, with one whole wall to itself. It is completely white, except for vibrant hues of red, green, yellow, and blue on the very edges. Sam Francis did not simply take a white canvas and paint some color on the edges. No, he painted the entire canvas white, then added the colors at the edges. The colors looked as though they wanted to move inward and cover the entire canvas with their vivid life. I wanted them to move too. I wanted that white canvas to be filled with color.
As I stood there looking at the empty painting I could not help thinking of a young Brasilian girl named Andresa. She prayed fervently and served God willingly every day because, as she said, "If I don't go, who will?" She was killed in a car crash at age 12, her purposeful life ended abruptly.
I thought of a young boy who drowned near my school when I was sixteen. He had family who loved him and mourned his death. He was so young, and so fragile. Who knows what he could have done with his life?
I thought of all those children who died in the Holocaust. Not just children, but teenagers, and young adults. Many of them were my age, on the brink of leaving their homes and building the lives of their dreams. The war and ensuing chaos took all of that away from them.
All of these people had painted a small bit of their life canvas. Anyone peeking could have seen the life at the edges, and foreseen that someday it would fill the entire canvas. Then something happened, whether it was a car crash, a swimming accident, or a terrible war, and there was no one left to fill that empty canvas. No one but the person who began it could tell where the colors were supposed to go. Those who came after them were left to ponder "What might have been?", just as I did when I contemplated the Sam Francis painting.
Eventually, I kept moving slowly through the gallery, tilting my head every now and then. A new realization and question followed me the rest of the afternoon, though. I have a life canvas. What am I going to do with it? What are you going to do with yours?
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