To Paint

I keep finding myself in white walled galleries staring at masterful artistic works.  Impressionism, Abstract Expressionism, Minimalism, Modernism, Post Impressionism.  I've unintentionally been on a three city tour and have seen some of the finest art in the world.  I think about the canvases in their original state, free of expression, awaiting their fate.  What happened in the days and hours prior to paint hitting the blank surface?  What thoughts swirled in the artist's mind?  What feeling was he/she trying to communicate?  What is the artist's point of view on light, isolation or tension?  Once completed what life did the artwork live?  What walls did it grace prior to finding itself in this particular museum -- a cold water flat on the lower east side of Manhattan, a salon in Paris, a cathedral in Spain?  I wonder about the day the piece was first unveiled for a lover's eyes, a critic's praise or the masses' assessment.  On the plaque next to the painting I glean bits of information -- the artist's age when the work was completed, who owns it, or bequeathed it to the museum.   I think about the courage it takes to commit one's life to making art.  How powerful the desire to create must be to go against convention and practical vocations.  The creative voices gushing like water down a gorge out of the mind and onto the canvas.