I'm a writer and until recently I didn't think that I understood or appreciated "art." Great works of literature I studied and loved. I devoured plays and films. I enjoyed good photography. But whenever people asked, I told them I didn't really understand "art." No place was more boring to me than a contemporary art museum. I tried to understand; I applauded people for 'putting their feelings onto the canvas' whenever I saw the incomprehensible streaks of lines and color. But I didn't really enjoy looking at it.
On the contrary, I had always enjoyed the works of Edmund Blair-Leighton and J.W. Waterhouse. For the most part I didn't know the names of these artists, and I considered them a guilty pleasure. "This is the kind of stuff high school students hang on their bedroom walls, not real art," I said. But when it came time to decorate my house with my new wife, we hung our framed Waterhouse print in the guest bedroom. Guilty pleasure or no, we both liked it.
What a joy to find your site! I'd never heard of William Bouguereau, but his portrait of the Bohemian captures an image so striking that photography could never be its equal. If this had been considered art while I was growing up I'd have been a connoisseur! Clearly there's a whole world here for me to discover. I've also come to realize that the joy I derive from a good Waterhouse or Blair-Leighton piece is not due to some deficiency on my part, but on the expressive brilliance of the artists. Thank you!
-David Kosak
Costa Mesa, CA
