It was 1974, and I was entering the Galeries Nationales du Grand Palais in the city of Paris where I was born. Our school teacher decided to take our class on an afternoon field trip to see the first retrospective in France of Catalan master Joan Miró.
I had just turned eight years old and; I did not know what the word “art” meant. I had no particular artistic talent, nor a desire to create like so many creative children do. I didn’t spend my time coloring books.
I just wanted to escape.
Yet, I entered these galleries that suddenly made me surprised, excited, impressed, intimidated, reassured, scared of the unknown, and almost terrified of being transported into a world where the color, form, shape, pattern, scale, and texture of all these indescribable things hanging from the walls all bared the same family name: Art.
At the same time, I felt ecstatic to recognize that, through the back-and-forths between me and these artworks, my ambiguous concept I had known as “flowing emotional communication”, really existed.
I did not know what I was looking at or why these compositions and objects were there to be seen, but it didn’t matter.
One piece, in particular, Le Tapis, 1974, frankly scared the hell out of me.
I was four feet tall, and completely enveloped by the enormousness of this uncomfortable, yet impressive, ugly yet beautiful piece.
I remembered thinking about the conjunction of opposite forces, much like my parents’ failing marriage at the time. It was an attraction and union of different worlds, but more importantly, a natural attraction to me.
I had found my escape.
The balance, equilibrium, and tension brought me a measure of things; my experience with the carpet challenged me and my very existence.
This one-to-one relationship is what keeps me looking and going back to understand how my relationships with objects change over time. I do it to keep that relationship alive, but also I believe, somehow deeply, to stay alive myself.
I begin my blog with this childhood anecdote because I realize that at that moment, before the Miró, I began to become extremely aware of the power of my own eye.
The expression “beauty is in the eye of the beholder” popularized by a writer named Margaret WOLF, back in 1878, already existed thousands of years ago in Ancient Greece, three centuries before Christ. Yet, it remains the basic reason why I write this.
Beauty and meaning belong to you. You are the beholder as much as I am.
I want to show you how to cultivate and develop your own sense of beauty, so that you may also experience the ongoing relationship with art that has kept me going since my fateful encounter with Le Tapis so many years ago.
Welcome to Honest Eye and welcome to our journey of growth and conscious collecting.