I’d heard that, as you age, you often become more interested in art. What I didn’t expect was to discover how that growing interest in art would affect my fiction writing.
I wasn’t a stranger to art, but I can’t say it was a major preoccupation, either. I had two semesters of art history in college; I took two, because the same textbook was used for both, and it was more expensive than the tuition. I’m also not an artist.
I know when my connection of art to writing fiction started. It was some 50 years ago. We were young twenty-somethings living in Houston, and we saw two exhibitions at the Museum of Fine Arts. One was the works of Paul Cezanne, and it was stunning. But the one that captured me was “Master Paintings from the Hermitage and the State Russian Museum, Leningrad.” Houston was one of five cities hosting it.
To continue reading, please see my post today at the ACFW blog.
Painting: Lumpeguin, Cigwe, Animiki, by Anselm Kiefer, from collection of the artist on display at the St. Louis Art Museum.
Some Wednesday Readings
The genre that came in from the cold: Why we love spy fiction – Andy Owen at The Critic Magazine.
Fierce, wild, intractability: Emily Bronte’s untameable spirit – Henry Oliver at The Common Reader.
Surf’s Up in Slop City – Lincoln Michel at Counter Craft.
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