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 modal value of speaking me to museums that housed some of the greatest creative persons the world has always seen. Raphael, Michelangelo, da Vinci, Donatello, and Botticelli stimulate me like only the finest of drugs could. El Greco pulled me bring down into the deepest pits of hell with his fiery, spring figures. Just as I was around to be consumed by the flames, Caravaggio rescued me and took me towards the mysterious, heavenly light that permeated through and through his oil paintings. I was a blind man who was experient fortune 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 coetaneous artist I would regard as great was police van train van Gogh (who doesnt love starlit Night)? That was it. Those were the real artists. After Van Gogh and the era of post-impressionism came what I saw 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 physical structure parts detached and go around in the scope? Andis that an eye in the ecological niche? The unease I had begun to feel in my stomach was straight off radiate in every cell in my body, and I in haste left the room. That was not art. The first thought that came to head countersign when my art teacher announced that we would be doing a cubist drawing as our next project was you have got to be kidding me. There was no way I co! uld lower myself to the puritanical level of Cubism. To do so would be to make a mockery of the true artists I held in such high gear esteem.If you want to get a full essay, order it on our website: OrderCustomPaper.com

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