Art in Life

Art has always been a vital part of my life. When I was old enough to appreciate genuine fine art, my parents started musical mode of speaking me to museums that housed some of the greatest creative persons the world has invariably seen. Raphael, Michelangelo, da Vinci, Donatello, and Botticelli stimulate me like only the finest of drugs could. El Greco pulled me fine-tune into the deepest pits of hell with his fiery, spring figures. Just as I was closely to be consumed by the flames, Caravaggio rescued me and took me towards the mysterious, heavenly light that permeated finished his oil paintings. I was a blind man who was go through mess for the premier(prenominal) time when it came to Monet and Manet, and my heart broke at the sight of the grave realism portrayed by Daumier and Freud. The most coeval artist I would regard as great was station wagon train van Gogh (who doesnt love starlike Night)? That was it. Those were the real artists. After Van Gogh and the e ra of post-impressionism came what I adage as the grungy Ages of art: Cubism. When I saw my first Picasso, I was stunned. What on earth is this? wherefore is everything so flat and geometric?

Why are random organic structure parts detached and go around in the mount? Andis that an eye in the ecological niche? The unease I had begun to feel in my stomach was straight off emit in every cell in my body, and I hurriedly left the room. That was not art. The first thought that came to head reciprocation when my art teacher announced that we would be doing a cubistic drawing as our next project was you have got to be kidding me. There was no way I cou! ld lower myself to the risque level of Cubism. To do so would be to make a mockery of the true artists I held in such high school esteem.If you want to get a full essay, order it on our website: OrderCustomPaper.com

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