Artwork. Artwork is an escapism.
It is a spark that ignites countless nerve endings, feelings, emotions, and waves of brain activity in our human vessel.
It is engraved into us. Through the generations, we have cherished artwork in all its forms. From our ancestors’ cave paintings, which invoked feelings of wonder and sacred worship, to the abstract and realism eras, where we dedicated entire monuments to these expressions and wandered their halls. We stare into the soul of each piece. We dissect them. Trying to make sense of how they move us, how they open our eyes, what they reveal, and what we see through them.
Art is a sacred expression. Every interpretation is different. That is art. To press a single leaf onto a page and invite everyone to find their own meaning. No answer is ever the same, since no two people have lived through identical experiences. No one can predict the exact train of thought, feeling or knowing that unfolds upon first glance.
Nowadays, art is everywhere. We destroy our world, yet adorn it with reminders of beauty. Through music, through dance, through painting, through creation. Art is simply everything. We carry sacred pieces upon our beings. We wear the art that calls to us. We wrap our souls with colours, textures and sensations that whisper to our spirits. Beauty that is uniquely ours.
Today, I walked into a coffee shop, mind blank and expectations non-existent. After ordering my go-to chai latte, with its steaming foam patterned like a dream, I felt a whisper. A pull, a call, whatever you want to call it. Something insisted on being seen by my very being.
I followed that lullaby to a printing table, where a large painting rested. A tranquil lake, with indigo flowers rising from its water, and roots entangled beneath the surface. Staring at the abundance of colours felt like my soul suddenly blinked open.
The sky was rendered in such rich, textured blues that I felt if I dipped my feet in, I would sink into the palette. Like many art pieces out there, it was beautiful. Unique. Soulful.
But that wasn’t what caught me.
The longer I stared, the more the image reshaped itself in my mind. My thoughts slowed, and escapism took over. I was suddenly seated on a grassy riverbank, the sun setting as shadows cast over the lake.
Magpies called out, while crickets chirped from afar. I could see the tiny water mosquitoes, dancing in the dusk light. I could feel the breeze brushing my right cheek and smell the damp earth beneath me. It was calm, grounded.
And I knew that if I leaned forward just two steps, I would be submerged into the lake.
Fantasy and reality have always been vast and intertwined concepts for myself. Spending equal time in each, it didn’t matter that I hadn’t been to this lake. It didn’t matter that I didn’t know where it was, or what birds were there, or what season it was. From the first glance at this painting, it was real. My mind had already shaped it into an experience for myself.
I could feel it in my heart, I could see it in my eyes, I could touch it with my fingers. It was there. I was there.
I knew that the purple flowers symbolised spiritual growth, self-expression, knowing. They bloomed in the presence of somebody discovering who they are. I knew if I had visited this lake last year, a week ago even, the flowers would be different. Because every single day is a new journey. Today, they bloomed purple, tomorrow, they may turn blue.
The rich colours of the sunset represented the end of a chapter, and the embrace of a new one. Orange, the leader of expansion. I could feel it - my mind, my vessel, my soul, all soaring to new heights. As I walked around the large print, I noticed delicate white streaks in the corner. Birds rendered with a single flick of the brush, maybe imperceptible or minuscule to anyone else, but not to me. Because I knew what they represented.
Ancestors, spirit guides, higher and divine beings. All soaring high above me, ever ready to swoop down and cradle me in their feathers, should I need their support or love.
I knew in my heart, that for the rest of the day, the rest of the year, perhaps my life - if I closed my eyes and looked up, I would be able to see those swishes of paint in the sky, and know that I am not alone.
As fate would have it, Terry Saleh, was sitting at the table right beside me. The artist of the very piece I was so captivated by.
Chance encounters are funny like that.
For more of Terry’s artwork: