Black Magic, by Rene Magritte
If you enjoy Magritte, you probably already know that he only had one wife, uncommon for a 20th century painter, and that his wife frequently posed for him. She was his muse; his paintings of her are beautiful and often haunting.
I’m not normally a huge fan of modern art; most abstract art is completely lost on me. So is most surrealism, but I love Magritte. (Who doesn’t secretly want to have a font named after them?) I love that his paintings are aesthetically pleasing, while still having a shroud of mystery. I love his liberal use of clouds, pipes, and apples. I love his attitude. And I love that his wife was his muse. It is something that I wonder about though. Did he paint her as she actually was or just as she was in his mind’s eye? Don’t we naturally think of the people we love as beautiful? The more you know and love someone, the more their inner beauty just takes over. I think that, for those I truly love, I barely even know what they look like.
There is this crossing over where I become part of what I love. And as such my vision becomes a bit myopic. What do you think? Have you become physically blind to what your friends and family actually look like, to the point that you could transform them into works of art?