Paintings in my mind (1)

Persistence of Memory by Salvador Dali (the clock)
Sunflowers by Vincent van Gogh (the flowers and the sunrays)
Monalisa by Leonardo da Vinci (the lips, off course)
Potret Diri by Basuki Abdullah (the untidy hair)

...among others, are the famous paintings I can recall from my mind, the objects in brackets stemmed there in my small brain during my childhood. Where did I get to know those paintings? I sometimes wondered too. Then I recalled, they had visited my small little town, and infused my small little brain from the magazines and newspaper such as Intisari, Tempo, Kompas or Sinar Harapan that my father bought and brought home so many decades ago. I was about 6 years old, or at least in my primary school age. The pictures were tantalizing. Vivid. They often came into my childhood dreams. The most appreciated legacy Dad has on us (me especially) is the trait of his thirst to read and absorb new knowledge. For any reason. I remember that even during his last days at the hospital, he was so happy when I brought him the Indonesian edition of Reader's Digest, or Tempo or Kompas to be read when he was really bored of the hospitals, and medications and doctors and nurses and all sort of limitations he must have faced at the hospital.

I guess he had the same feeling with me everytime I read something new: I can easily transported to a totally different world, the new world of new knowledge. Knowing something that previously wasn't thought of, which apparently exist. Knowing places that others had been journeyed to before. That feeling of fulfillment, satisfaction, like a drip of water absorbs into dry soil.

And once upon a time, in my real life, I've had a chance to really observe carefully one of the paintings. Persistence of Memory by Dali. There in the Arts Centre of Melbourne last year. The moment I saw it, it's like "Whoaaaa...you're for real, man!" My mind travelled fast to the past. Like turning the pages of my life, a sort of rewinding my years to the day I turned the page of Intisari decades ago. The same sort of admiration embraced me. How come these people be so genius? How come these paintings are so beautiful?

Looking at the beautiful paintings remind me of my own failures: never been able to paint a good painting. A sense of desperation about paintings that made me turned to photography (not really photography but just taking pictures I suppose). I have a problem translating the beautiful objects in my mind into brush and papers (never used canvas til then). Always failed to blend the dark blue of the sky when it is almost dark in the evening; never been able to blend the right yellow orange of the moon on a moonlight night; never been able to blend the correct mix of blue and pink sky on the verge of sunset; never been able to draw a smooth line between the sea water and the sand, to mention some of my frustrations. The list is long actually, just can't write them all down here.

I guess, in the end, I'd sort of giving up this dream. Perhaps when I'm old, I'd like to try again when time allows. Oh, I suddenly remember the day when my drawing (with watercolour) was copied by a friend in Year 8. She did that without my permission, but she had never admitted it when I've asked her. Deep in my heart, I prouded that it meant my picture was good enough to be a model. That was the day when I thought, perhaps I could be an artist or a painter. I recall the picture is about groups of yellow bamboo trees in the bank of a small water spring or river. With the big grey stones, and the shades of the bamboos fall on the blueyish water. And the blue greenish mountain on the background. Such natural scenic sights I'd always wanted to see in the real life.

Well, at least I went to architecture to pursue half of my dream of being an artist or a painter. Other than that, I will keep trying to be able to see with my own eyes the paintings of my childhood dreams, those of the great painters. One has been fulfilled. Others are to be kept dreaming of (I'm sorry for the grammatical error).