Last night I went to see the Carl Bloche exhibit. The ambience of the gallery/museum was tangibly spiritual. The paintings amazing; symbolism abounded, angels, the Saviour, the watchful eyes of children, water, wells, lighting, signs of divinity, crown of roses, spring flowers, the color red, the color of importance, courage, sacrifice, love; red socks, red cap, red undershirt, birds, nature, every day fields, clouds and reflections, sandaled feet, bare feet, a bound man, a doubting man, a widow dressed in black. Hands; hands folded, hands reaching, hands outstretched, beckoning, always inviting.
I was distracted. Distracted by the lack of cultured reverence and curiosity. Loud voices, outside. My iPad, stuck to my hand, but it was tedious to use, and I kept watching, hopeful, a certain some would see something more. I was glad there were so many people. Once inside, the loud voices settled to hushed-ness, quiet questions, and moments of recognition. Paint strokes, larger than life, etchings, scratched with pen, stories remembered, lessons learned.
In the end, it was worth it. I think it will always be so, that a certain some will see something, which in turn will enable them to feel more. Something is lost, when we no longer can "see" with the heart.