Amused. I am really and I tend to do it to myself a lot. I find myself on this gloomy Tuesday afternoon cross-legged with my infamous purple file leaving its impression on my upper thighs. I have brought it upon myself to assume the role of art historian and critic as I embark on a journey through time.

A swift flight through the 19th century and I find myself visiting both the Romantics and Neo Classicists. They both told me stories of a very similar nature however differing predominantly in the decision of how much they would leave to the imagination (if you know what I mean). Trudging through their war stricken tales while balancing on the edge of life and death, I saw the light. So did the Impressionists and soon I was encapsulated in an atmospheric realm lost in amongst colour and reflection. My mind is swirling as this fast-paced art movement tries to explain to me the importance of capturing a moment but before I can grasp what they are trying to say the thought is gone. "It's about what you see and not what you know!" Surely I only know what it is I have seen? "I meant out there. Right now. That which you see in front of you." I guess I should open my eyes. That was implied. There were no shadows to hide amongst as the Impressionists had done away with somber tones. The unstable state of an artistic mind would get the better of them. They would soon want more. Simply seeing was not good enough. They needed structure, they needed durability, they needed emotion, they needed dreams. They would be defined simply by what they were not. What they weren't were Impressionists. What they were was individual. And this is the part of my journey that would first have me angry and then heart sore and then slightly amused but over all emotionally moved. I'm still not certain if it was the sudden increase in the average number of words used to summarise the life, work and ideology of each Post Impressionist but something was happening inside of me that had me treading on dangerous waters. I was interacting with history on a level I had never experienced before, developing theories and opinions that had little to fall back on. Silently cursing any praise given to Cezanne simply because his life story bores me. Also I really dislike his paintings, and the way he treated his family and just pretty much EVERYTHING about him. I know, strong feelings towards a guy that I've never met but I have a hunch that I wouldn't like him even if I had. Practically arguing with the photocopied notes that lie in front of me I was refreshed to see the heading "Cezanne's Death" (and this is a sadistic side of my personality that I am slowly discovering but death means end and I was slowly losing interest). With the same arbitrary, unjustified emotion that had left me red in the face I would experience a deep sympathy for Van Gogh as I slowly learnt of the series of unfortunate events were stringed together in a tragic and some what pathetic life story. I was experiencing the polar extreme of what I had not but half a page ago put myself through. My opinion is highly biased as he was quoted saying that "yellow is beautiful" and with those three words he crept into my heart. As somebody who doesn't like painting in general I did find myself enjoying the physical presence that his work willingly claims and as I look at his paintings I know how he must have felt. I get this sort of energy in my body as I pretend to stand in his shoes and I know what he meant. And then I become extremely frustrated because there is this language barrier that exists in the world when trying to communicate emotion as a person can only interpret another's feelings in terms of their own. I imagine that Van Gogh must have experienced a similar annoyance. This is fitting. Most of everything else however is not. And it’s all that other miscellaneous dribble and drab that had me catching a mild case of the giggles.