The Souls' Plea

The Souls Plea Copyright © 2009 Pia Zellini

I travel to the gallery everyday at 2:30 pm. Each visit takes me back to my one true passion. My desire lies in the exquisite tastes of others. Masterpieces line the walls. Treasures hidden from our daily existence synchronize with heartbeats longing for a voice. Galleries, museums and libraries hold the beat of time - refreshing our souls, feeding our minds and telling stories we've never heard.

Marbled floors welcome willing footprints. Written words evaporate. Images and patterns form voiceless expressions of torment, heraldry and temptation. Art is the ultimate religious experience. Standing in front of a Picasso, a smile forms on my face. "The Visit (Two Sisters)" mesmerizes hazel eyes. Shadows dancing within a frame tell of longing while welcoming the closeness of family.

Making my way down dim lit halls, I embrace the silence that harmonizes with fascination. Every glance takes me on a journey through life's heartache while welcoming the tranquility we never reach for. Hustling hands point in glory's direction, cursed tongues no longer speak of life's foul odor that lingers, tainting our senses and hindering growth. One building in the center of town becomes immaculate, erasing every sin.

Elegance becomes the design of time, art the fountain of truth we drink from. Parched lips thirst for emotion - rage, hope, love, hate - we destroy ourselves with coldness becoming bitter and numb. Beauty is found everywhere, even in pain. Some say Constantinovich's "Moonlit Seascape With Shipwreck" welcomes nature's fury while others embrace the hidden message of unity, comradery and the power found in leaning on others for help. Torrential downpours open the youngest of eyes but wisdom and hope form lasting bonds and a way through life's storms.

Hidden messages within each painting, I often wonder if some artists are tormented. The depths of one's soul can always be measured with visual guidance. A disguise, masked martyrs - geniuses before their time - a true artist reaches inside the minds' struggle, pulling out what others dare not see. Their pain echoes throughout our lives, bringing us back to that one moment in time when agony existed, love blossomed and hope prevailed.

Murillo's "The Young Beggar" leaves me in awe, awakening an imagination that has lied dormant for many years. Art, an escape - perhaps, but even a wandering mind stands still long enough to welcome the splendor of true craftsmanship.

Heading home, I welcome the suns' rays. Summer was always the best time for creation. There's something romantic about Heavens' warmth and the stroke of a paintbrush. Life awakens with the suns' call and sleeps when the eye of night whispers its promise of peace. Nature's breath envelopes the trees that line frightened streets. There are moments when fear closes its' eyes and welcomes earth's innocence and revelation.

Entering the home, I drop my purse on the white Park Place velvet sofa and kick off my dark brown sandals before heading upstairs. Framed passions line the walls and the soft touch of Saxony is all that's felt between my toes.

One door separates dreams from reality. Touching the handle, memories of childhood flood an open mind. I started drawing at the age of five and painting at the age of six. By the times I was 14, I had caused so much damage to my parents' house I was beginning to think I would be banned from painting ever again.

My parents' bought my first easel when I was 16. It was one of the happiest moments in my life. I guess the bathroom wall and kitchen table weren't the perfect canvases but when the muse awakens, it can't be stopped. I've had many easels throughout the years, but the first was always the most special.

Entering the attic, white walls and flowing curtains surround a perfectly placed Halley Easel holding a cotton duck canvas. I haven't painted in years. The desire has always been there. Unfortunately, time no longer permits my inner demons to be released. Demons may be too strong of a word but I have no doubt that one must be moved by another force in order to piece together what the mind and heart separate.

Taking a seat on the stool, I stare at a blank canvas begging for a little red, green and black. Landscapes enter my mind as my soul pleads for the right to speak. Picking up the paintbrush, I begin my life's journey, allowing what's separate to once again unite and awakening a childhood dream that has lied dormant but has never died.