Sometime last year I told myself that before I died, I had to see in it's flesh, this painting. I guess I'm lucky living where I do that the painting itself is actually only hung about an hour or so from my house at the National Gallery in London. So, I knew before embarking on the ten hour plane journey to San Fransico that the plane was going to crash and I would never see this painting and thus took the liberty the week before setting off to pay it a visit.
Strangely enough, I actually have no inherent interest in art. It's fun to look at and as with any artistic medium, I can always appreciate the effort that goes into it, I just, don't know, find it exasperatingly frustrating when people look into things like poems and artwork in order to see whatever farfetched meaning they can possibly deduce.
So why this painting? I actually got in super, super late one evening a while back and for whatever reason, the BBC were airing a documentary that looked at both the painting, its artist, and the historical and cultural background surrounding it. Awesome. Well, not really but there is something intrinsically alluring about the painting. I don't think I've ever seen something created by hand that so closely resembles reality... It's funny to think that when I did eventually get to see the painting in it's flesh and blood, that I could get close enough to see each brush stroke that was made eight years before the country I am sat writing this in, even existed.
I suggest that if you ever want to feel culturally enriched, pay the National Gallery a visit...
Jonty x
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