Day One

I think by now I can admit, I’m pretty fond of soul-searching. I ponder, I wonder, I aspire all things.

I get too wrapped up in thinking and inaction. I’m still, but my mind races.

Everything observation is a trade-off. To take the time to analyze dwindles what may be left to simply do.

So here I am, officially in my mid-twenties, and yes, I realize I need to change the descriptor on the sidebar, but please, can’t I do it next week, next month, next year?

I’ve never been one to go quietly, I’m screaming in my head at least, even if my face hides all, and for this, the age-old 'first day of the rest of my life', I will stay true to myself. Stand by.

In front of Barnett Newman I looked up at an expanse; to me it was more orange than red, but to the warbling voice through the Whitney’s audio earphones, it was the opposite of course.

This was Day One, of many things. The title of the work, my birthday, a state of knowing and then not.

Barnett told me via the voice that he reconciled with the idea of beginning with color. And what did that mean?

It meant the towering piece’s intent was to show in a small room so it could inundate; transport us all into the field of orange.

And the voice asked, what is the meaning of this? As though he was my grandfather or something, he said it just like that.

The voice answered itself. To strive for the sublime, though the definition of the word is quite fluid, it still had that ring.

Sublime as in nature, enlightenment, the afternoon alone somehow, though surrounded by shuffling museum patrons. This is what it was, I’m sure that’s what the voice would have said, had the voice been alive and next to me.

He said it was the beginning. Day One. Of a new world, or at least a new picture.

And it was.