Personal Narrative-Wheat Field With Cypresses

Wheat Field with Cypresses

There was an electric buzz that filled the small room while people milled around. A crowd gathered to the left, perplexed by something that hung on the beige wall. The sound of shuffling feet floated in the air while everyone struggled to get prime position to witness something so many before and after themselves have and will experience; an experience that defies the natural order of life, having a man just stand there, within arms reach, not in his living form but rather in a form he created himself, and have their breath taken away.

I bobbed and weaved against an invisible opponent, straining to find a clear view while the backs of heads stared back, unrushed and disregarding my intent. The small group of tourists proceeded slowly like that of a mourning stroll while a sombre silence filled me. The painting I was trying to grab a glimpse of was still unknown to me while I inched closer towards the goal. The mystery enriched the bewilderment and wonder of the revelation.

The winding brushstrokes littered the canvas in colours

I paced each breath I took in front of the masterpiece, soaked in the unnatural colours and accentuated shapes, noticed the start and end of each brush strokes life span on the canvas and fell in love with each one. Despite just standing in front of me, Vincent displays his passion with swirling action and dominant skill. The whooshing of the wind that blew the field could still be heard and the kiss of the sun still fell on my face.

A moment later and the tears were being rubbed out of my eyes while the painting grew smaller and the shuffling feet became softer. My senses filtered back into reality as the walls spread out and the echoes I heard in the open hall matched those that rebounded off the walls inside me. The painting etched itself in memory and cemented it 's place in my heart.[579