I remember very vividly our trip to the Louvre – it was a weekend spent in Paris with my family. We stayed at a lovely bed and breakfast and then instantly headed to check out the museum. We all wanted to see what it was all about.
I was fourteen or fifteen years old, and I didn’t know anything, certainly nothing about art. We were all rather bored strolling through the cramped hallways of the Louvre, everyone rather eager to go back to wine and dine like you would in Paris.
But when I saw the winged marble sculpture of the Greek goddess Nike, I was mesmerized. It was one of the most intriguing, capturing statues I’d ever witnessed and I couldn’t point my finger on it as to why. I took millions of pictures with my old camera – but I can’t find them either.
This is one of my fondest memories of art: I didn’t understand, I didn’t actually see, but something about it kept me staring, almost hypnotized, by the beauty of the statue. There was no interpretation, no train of thoughts along in the process. It was just me and that statue and I knew if I could, I’d definitely want to put it in my living room.
I just stumbled upon its Wikipedia entry and it tries to describe what it is about it that makes it so special, but all of it is bullshit if you ask me. It’s special because it is, and that’s all that I would expect or ever want art to be.