Friday afternoon, arriving back home
Raindrops falling on me
I am running through
Red fields of poppies set
Under low dark skies
Yellow took another tone
Turned from Raps to Mohn
I pick a flower,
take it with me
To bring it home
field or poppies, I passed it while I went jogging in the fields behind town,
fields that were all yellow just some weeks ago. The field of poppies, it
greeted me again when I came home from the trip, home from the work out: it's
the June page of the Impressionist calendar a friend gave to me in December.
And June in the calendar has just that colour and taste and atmosphere that
it has here right now: fields of red poppies.
The painting on this page, the painting in the calendar, it's a Claude Monet -
his "Field of Poppies"
The real painting,
it's a part of the Musee d'Orsay
And Paris - is the place where I walked into the world of art
for the first time, on a windy April day.
was not that I hadn't been in museums before. I even had been in the very museum
before, in the Louvre.
But it was on that day, in the "Department des Paintures", that it happened.
I sat in front of Cezannes,
Monets, Renoirs, and for the first time was taken by awe, by the beauty, by the
daring. It was there that I was in the painting for a moment, that I could feel
all those emotions the painter put in the painting, and that I found myself standing
there, holding back my hand, holding back the longing to touch what just had touched