I like to imagine my life like an oil painting.
Rich, contrasting tones, but somehow seamlessly blended together. Textures of different watercolors, acrylics, and enamels leaping off the canvas, giggling as they shriek exclamations of deep purple and sharp blues.
The tone could be yellowed with the hue of a hot summer’s day spent lazing on the grass, wearing long, flowy green dresses to extravagant dinner parties, and basking in the warmth of someone’s gaze.
Or, the mood of the piece could be willowed with somber trees at a lonely park on a cold winter’s night, the snow settling so coldly on a stranger’s shoulders. It can be hopeful and earnest all the same, the brush laden with past promises that transfer onto the canvas.
When life seems particularly difficult to endure, I envision the scenes of my recent memories with a bittersweet romanticism, hoping that, as an oil painting or like a scene out of Atonement, they’ll seem that much more aesthetic and desirable to miss.
Maybe that way, I’ll convince myself that nothing is ever bad, and there is always something good.
Oil paintings never fail to amaze me, no matter what they depict. On a recent trip to the art museum, I was astounded by the intricately gorgeous art on display, especially paintings from past centuries.
One of my favorites was from 1994—although it wasn’t incredibly old, it still spoke to me. It was an oil painting of daffodils and cereal: such straightforward topics, but saying so much in their simplicity.
Daffodils are my birth flower, so I was immediately drawn to them. There was also something about the greenery and the winding textures of the strokes that felt comforting, similar to Sunday mornings and Thursday nights at dusk.
I interpreted the painting as a moment of serenity in the artist’s life, where everything felt slow and easygoing, and she could perhaps relax on a rocking chair and gaze at her backyard.
When I looked at “Daffodils and Cereal,” I imagined “Slow Down” by Laufey playing in the background, as I wondered when I could sit back and relax on my own Sunday morning with daffodils and cereal in front of me.
In this scenario, Laufey would be crooning, “Though I’m getting older / My life has just begun,” and I’d close my eyes and think about how life is so stubborn but still has its virtues.
When thinking about oil paintings, Laufey, and daffodils and cereal, I can look at life with a lens of yellowed film, reminiscing on the past as something to be grateful for while also glancing to the future, trusting that it’ll be full of the quiet, sonder moments I’ve come to cherish so dearly.
