The Art of Being Real

Impressionism, as an art form, is not an act of deconstruction. It is, in fact, a synthesis of light and shape and color. It depicts this place, in which we live, as ephemeral and fleeting. It reveals the world around us by unmasking its disguise. It captures neither time nor space, but the transience of both. It paints the atmosphere around a thing, and not the thing itself.

It is the opposite of permanence; it is ethereal and brief.

When we look upon these objects, we create what we are seeing. We intuit every fleck of paint by something it is not. We invent a new reality by seeing what we think, but what we see does not exist, except in our own minds. Forms emerge and shapes dissolve in the process of becoming. It is a different way of seeing. A deeper kind of truth.

And the only way to see that truth is to view it from a distance.

Life itself is much like this, an impressionistic painting. Every memory a brushstroke. Every color an emotion. A synthesis of time and place, and the people passing through it. Transient, not permanent, but essential nonetheless. We create our own reality by how we view the world. And, we view the world most clearly when we see what others don’t. When we look beyond the obvious, to see what’s really there.

Sight is just a faculty, but seeing is an art. It’s the art of being human. It’s the art of being real.