Review of a Forgotten Painting

A painting, forgotten in a corner—perhaps even abandoned. No one even glances at it; its frame is rusted over. The painter didn’t even bother to give it a name, as if it wasn’t worth the effort. The painting screams… it cries out… its only wish is to be seen by someone who will truly value it, to belong to someone who can recognize its beauty. Like everyone else, it longs to be understood; like everyone else, it burns silently to be noticed. Its colors are dark, untouched by light, dependent on the beam set up solely to illuminate the painting beside it. Why did no one love it? Why did no one ever deem it worthy?

The shapes on the canvas are blurry, as if it were a test board used to try out brushes—no one even made an effort to draw upon it deliberately. Just splashes of color, mixed together to find the right tone… Didn’t those who did this feel any shame? Should we begin to doubt the eyes of those who failed to see the light it holds? Perhaps the value we give to objects shifts according to our capacity to romanticize them. Why has no one ever looked at it with romantic eyes? Why has no one surrendered to the thoughts it awakens? Why… when there is but one thing that truly deserves to be romanticized, have people written poems about so many others?