mirroring meaning

I am what you make of me. An array of colors on a white canvas, a few black lines sketching out a human, or maybe an animal, or maybe a mountain, a mixture of different mediums. Oil, pastel, watercolor—the artist who made me created an impure mutation, something fractured. I'm detailed enough to have a unique personality, to add something to this museum, to be worthy of my spot on the wall, but I'm vague enough for every observer to project their own psyche onto my abstract smile (or is it a frown?). I mirror your thoughts, your emotions, your beliefs; I contain whatever meaning you contribute.

I am neither a book nor a poem, but I'm the type of creative invention that English teachers love. They find some meaning inside me and assign their students the job of artistic archeologist, telling them to uncover the message I carry, to discern the painter's motives in creating me. I am always interested in hearing what meaning they assign me, in hearing what messages people find hidden within my strokes of paint and pastel.

I am beautiful in my own, strange way. My colors are vibrant and bold, my lines are confident, my oil paints and pastels and watercolors all join to create something novel. There are enough elements on my canvas for anyone to find something to appreciate in me, and there are enough elements on my canvas for anyone to find something to critique in me. You can love me or hate me—who am I to judge? I exist for your perception.

I contain layers of colors, and sometimes a brush of yellow is actually a mask that hides the blue underneath. There are hidden hues that only I know about, hidden hues that are buried deep beneath more joyful, more vibrant shades. I am a compilation of mistakes and experimentation, and I sometimes wonder whether I belong on display in a museum or tucked away in a dusty attic. I ask myself if I deserve to be here, and I remind myself that that decision is not mine to make. My worth is bestowed upon me by observers.

I don't know how long I've been in this museum. I've seen other paintings come and go, and I wonder when it'll be my turn to retire, my turn to sit in the dark. There's something about that idea that frightens me—how will I know who I am if there's no one around to perceive me, to give me meaning? For art, meaning is typically seen as given. Or rather, meaning is seen as a given. It is taken as a given that art contains meaning. But for me, meaning is given. Meaning is given to me by observers.

Sometimes, artists inform their creations what their meaning is. They tell their paintings what meaning lies within them, they explain what the paintings represent, why they exist. I was never told why I exist. No famed artist whispered to me my purpose, no renowned painter passed along their intentions in bringing me into existence. I don't remember my creator very well, and I wonder if my creator remembers me. If I were an artist with a painting in a museum, I think I would feel proud. I wonder if my creator feels proud. Or, perhaps my creator is dead. Maybe their creation lives on, proudly hanging from the wall in a museum, while they lie buried six feet underground. Maybe the artist dies and withers away while their art persists and survives.

Please come visit me, please find meaning in my abstract appearance. Give me a reason for existence, just for a little, just for a moment.