I hated abstract art
I looked at it with disgust, I looked at it with contempt,
I looked at it with a distaste that could almost be described as indignant.
The painting had no appeal, the painting had no detail,
The painting had no tint of aesthetic wonder.
Decidedly I turned my head away, but I knew I would come again someday
To observe the painting yet again, maybe then I'd decipher a hint.
The painting tormented me day and night -the hideous, unorganized splashes of paint
Carelessly dripped over an over-sized canvas -the marks of Pollack, Picasso, and others I could not deign to appreciate
Hours and hours I spent on a painting -the intricate, purposeful lines of color
Carefully applied on a brand new canvas -the touch of Courbet, Manet, and others with whom I was infatuated
Reluctantly I returned again, I had come again the next day
To study the abstract yet again, but this time it was vastly different
The painting attracted me, the painting captured me
The painting trapped me with a ineffable sense of wonder
I looked at it with hunger, I looked at it with appreciation
I looked at it with a love that could almost be described as obsession
Then I realized -after all this time- I had slowly but surely fallen in love abstract art after all
It became a mix of emotions and expressions, it became part of my world
Inevitably and indubitably, it became part of me - a part of who I was to be.