There’s something about that inexplainable feeling you get after you finish a novel — when you’re hours deep into reading and suddenly realise you’ve just flipped over the last page — and you find yourself sitting there as your mind drifts from the fictional world back to dreaded reality. There are times you know what it is exactly, like that feeling of frustration over cliffhangers or simply utter confusion, but more often than not it’s completely unexplainable. And for some unknown reason, it’s the same feeling I get when I look at artwork.
When you come from a fine arts/design college, expect to be exposed to a bevy of paintings wether displayed, exhibited, misplaced or hastily carried by students. I would recall my history professor as she would occasionally digress from the lesson just to share insights on Amorsolo and Luna.
“If you don’t know Spolarium, get out of my class,” she would joke. Although sometimes I could never tell.
And wether it is along your course of study or not, it’s inevitable to come across art in any form. My affinity for paintings, however, draws way back to when I was still a kid and I recently rekindled my interest (especially for minimal art) during my quick visit at Silverlens. With works from Gina Osterloh and Hanna Pettyjohn currently being exhibited, I spent my afternoon frolicking around the small scale gallery nestled along Chino Roces. My general knowledge for paintings is fairly limited so I wouldn’t come close to being an art enthusiast. But there’s something about immersing myself in art that leaves me in complete awe.