I have figured out my fascination.
I am fascinated with transcendent beauty;
not the beauty that first catches an eye, but the beauty under the surface.
How, in its mount of contradiction, I still find myself completely content.
Captivated by the flaws.
Like carefully placed strokes on a canvas.
Intended to appear haphazard, but too delicately organized by the artist.
Deceiving to one who simply passes over after first glance,
but art to the eye who takes the time to divulge a deeper meaning.
Thus amidst it all, I find myself comfortable.
Free from judgment.
Open to seemingly vulnerable emotions that cloud the mind with "what ought to be" and "what ought not to be".
Grey, a concoction of both black and white, arguably tainted - unable to return to its former.
But on my palette, it's a highlight.
It exposes those shapes that would be otherwise lost in the shadows of larger objects.
Helps embody the beauty that so casually slips out of the frame.
I am not the painter.
Just a fan of the magnificent work.