The brushstrokes

When you visit Paris, avoid The Louvre. Despite its reputation as the center (or centre) of high art, its massive size and dense crowds create an exhausting experience for many people. Unless you are an art student, a fan of indoor hiking, or a talented pickpocket, just skip it.

The Louvre’s biggest attraction and most upsetting experience is the Mona Lisa. Each day tens of thousands of people crowd into the room where the painting hangs behind bulletproof glass. Only the tall and persistent get more than a fleeting glimpse of the canvas. Most spy it only through the neck-and-shoulder gap of a tourist raising an iPad above their head, snapping a blurry memory that will surely last a lifetime.

Instead, wander the small streets around Rue Vieille du Temple in the Marais neighborhood, and explore as many of the contemporary galleries as you can. Seeing a breathtaking painting up close is an experience at once religious and deeply humanistic. Observe the way the paint rises and falls, smudges and streaks. What was a vivid figure standing before you becomes a series of a hundred million movements of a person’s hand. A marriage of intention and coincidence, perfectly arranged imperfection. Up close, you see the brushstrokes. You see the hand that made the brushstrokes. You see beyond the image that the paint depicts, you feel the fragility of the painter.

Go explore the world and look for the brushstrokes.

Attending a performance by Cirque du Soleil or a fight in the UFC is completely different from watching the televised broadcast. Up close you are overwhelmed by the sense of physical risk. Our notions of courage and harm are largely informed by images on screens. Rarely do we see people risk their life before us. Being in the room gives us a bigger thrill, yes, but also a more profound understanding of their talent and a deeper respect for their defiance of fear.

Since the printing press, reproduction has given us the incredible opportunity to spread our work to millions. Yet, each reproduction distances us from the creator. It is easy to forget about the artist, or worse, to idealize them. To imagine their ability as innate and not painfully, arduously earned. To assume their success was inevitable and not a series of daily skirmishes with doubt and fear. To view them as immortal and not laughably frail; people with sore wrists and gas and bouts of forgetting friends’ birthdays.

When we get close enough to see the brushstrokes, we restore humanity to the creator.

And only when we get close enough to feel their humanity do we understand their divinity.