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An Artistic Cyberventure
M y eyes spent many sleepless nights in the halls of Virtual Galleries, where my mind wandered in different eras and my spirit danced in
various styles. Every time I visited Vermeer or Rembrandt, I adjusted the lighting in my room. I surfed oceans and seas more than once to
meet Gauguin in some exotic island; there I looked at the natives, some were beautiful, but naked. I felt sorry for the young Modigliani
who aged from misery, I told him that I appreciated his elongated portraits. One starry night, when Delacroix was describing the northern
desert of Africa to me, van Gogh asked me to pay him a visit at the Asylum of Saint-Rémi. The next day I invited myself to the palace of
King Philip IV of Spain to watch Velázquez painting Las Meninas. Another evening I decided to visit India, instead I landed in America. I went directly to the hometown of Hopper; I felt
lonesome, so I stopped at a gas station; on my way back, I took a few drinks at the
Nighthawks bar, where I discovered the disturbing beauty of Modern Art. In Italy I learned
more about Chirico's Metaphysical than
Leonardo's Sfumato. After discovering Renaissance through Raphael, I wondered why some British
poets decided to go back to the Pre-Raphael era. In Holland I visited the Tower of Babel through
the eye of Bruegel, the Elder; I could not talk to the son, maybe he got lost in the tower. René
Magritte, a rational Belgian, proved to me that distortion may create beauty; he also painted me
two lovers twice, but I could not see their faces.
When I needed entertainment, I rode on my horse and visited Degas; there I watched his dancers practicing graciously while Miss Lala
performing her circus act. One night I went to the Cemetery of Ornans and met Gustave Courbet, he invited me to his studio, it was a
real allegory. A sunday afternoon on the island of la Grande Jatte I saw Seurat placing small points on his canvas while talking to his
friend, Signac. The same afternoon I played with Paul Cezanne's card players in his Château Noir, where I made a fortune with my luck.
I found out that his style got rejected by art critics of his time, but when he died they called him "The father of modern art!" I knew that
Manet and Monet didn't have the same style, but I didn't know that Morisot painted her husband, Manet (the brother) while Renoir
painted his friend, Monet.
While entering Picasso's Gallery, I remembered that several years ago I heard him on the radio; most of the time he wrote checks
instead of paying cash, people didn't cash his checks. When I saw les demoiselles d'Avignon, I wished I were one of those suckers. Just
before dawn I decided to visit Picasso's homeland to meet with Goya and Dali; one of them was crazy and the other one acted crazy.
While Salvador was showing me the cannibalism in Autumn, Francisco painted the mighty God Saturn devoring his own son. At this
point I became so disturbed that I closed all the windows and regained my cold bed. |
