The force of its beauty caught in my throat, froze my ability to reason, accelerated my ability to intuit. The painting stood full, whole, heavy in its radiating orb of rare clarity. The painting was by no means pure. In fact, the jaggedness of its edges harmoniously, asymmetrically placed partially fenced its message away, gave it an air of impenetrability which held me captive. I was intrigued by its undeniable mystery, the tucked away wisdom which could be understood to exist beneath its surface at a visceral level. I felt suspended in space and disconnected from physicality, as though a living breath had never moved through me. The objects and their attributes held themselves, each component with its constituent color and form. The artist did not create, I had come to realize, but to translate. Plato knew something about Forms, but those true Forms lie latent not in pure geometry but in what I perceived in the painting to be kinetics and soul in one.
The fact that a name was tied to the piece’s creation shocked me. The piece was not implemented as excellently as it could have been. I could see that the artist lacked the technical ability to capture those meanings and wondered if the artist understood fully the magnitude of the piece, or if they had desperately cobbled together a vision which they did not think they deserved but were compelled to bring to life before pieces of that vision slipped into oblivion, never to bloom inside another lucky, seeing human again.
As quickly as the moment came, so it also passed. So I could already think, so I was already grounded.