It was a beach. Water, sand, seashells. A beach, right? Yet looking closer, it wasn't a beach. Water, sand seashells. It was a painting, nothing more than strokes of the brush. So why was it more? Why was there waves in my ears, sand amongst my toes and shells cracking under my feet? Because it was more than a beach. I turned at a sound, a graze of laughter. But only an old man stood there, who smiled at me as he caught my gaze. Quickly I turned away. Back to the beach, where two children splashed against the waves. They were shouting, cradling the water as it dripped through their hands. I turned away before the wave came, knowing what was to occur. Some things are better left to paint. But maybe not. Unlike paint, memories can fade quickly when forgotten.
I moved on. There was a meadow here, a meadow of acrylic swipes. Trees bounced in the distance, clouds gathering as their backdrop. A young women stood gravely amongst the grass, a veil of silk hiding her face. As she collapsed suddenly, I wanted to yell to her, to not let the white chiffon gather dirt which was soon to turn to mud. Just in case he returned. People were running now, daring to interrupt the flowers silence to reach the woman. I leaned closer, closer. They had picked her up, carrying her brashly past the frame. There was no more to see.
I moved on. A small cottage sat peacefully shrouded in a light glaze. I sighed, what could this unknown home present to me now. I stepped back a moment, attempting to gain a beautiful view of this sight. But instead a car pulled up, spluttering smoke over the cottage's garden. Killing the roses. Yellow roses. There was a crying somewhere, where? I didn't bother to look. There. A man was carrying a sling, and in it, a baby feeling the wind toss against her face. They began to move inside the house. The front gate pushed, and as they did, the baby wriggled, a hand coming lose. They never had yellow roses in the garden again.
I moved on. This time though, I went to the small bench that sat in the middle of it all. I sat in the middle of it all.
"Art is a beautiful thing."
I looked around, saw the old man sitting beside me. Was he there before? I couldn't remember.
"It is," I agreed politely, did I sound polite? I did not want to talk now. Sleep, sleep would be nice, where reality could be forgotten.
"Just to be able to escape, it's a magical thing." He was extravagant in speech, devoted.
"Yes magical." I wondered if I could walk away, but my mind could not know what was proper.
"You don't agree?" He didn't seem offended, but words spilled quickly from my mouth.
"Oh no, I do agree. Art is magical, wonderful, it does things, magical things. I'm Sorry," I said as I had been told. I slumped forward, defeated. "It's been a tired day." How many moments?
"You need a long day to really dive into art." He chuckled, with a smile as if he knew my secret.. But I did not see the joke. Hands on knees he rose. "Art really creates memories don't you think?"
I don't think he wanted to hear my answer as he paced away. I didn't have an answer, and was happy that I needn't delve into words to fish out something comprehensible.
I moved on. One last one, one last… A person stood there, dazed I think. Her face at least weathered, though she was not old. Behind her rested a beach, a meadow, a cottage, a memory. No, not one, many. A child had been taken by a wave once, saved after spluttering though water. A young woman had collapsed on her wedding day, grieved over the death of her fiancé. A baby had pricked her finger on a yellow rose, whilst returning to her home for the first time. And the last one, a child, staring with a curious gaze at a mirror, already creating her own future amongst the paintings. Art really does create memories, she decided.
And she left with a click of the heel, to create some more tomorrow.