I have always loved drawing and painting. As a little girl, my crayons and markers were my most prized possessions. I took all the art classes I possibly could, majored in Studio Art in college, and continued to invest time into my hobby as an adult.
Living in New York for over a decade afforded me the luxury of frequenting some of the country's finest art museums and galleries. I've seen a lot of art. And to be honest, most of it has little to no impact on me.
But I do remember the first time I saw a letter Michelangelo wrote his uncle. I remember standing in front of this framed letter feeling almost dumbstruck. I couldn't read it because it was written in Italian, so it's not like the contents of the letter had much meaning to me. The paper was yellowed from age, but ink with exquisite handwriting still quite legible.
In that moment, I felt I was peering into something most intimate. The same hands that painted the ceilings of the Sistine Chapel, that sculpted David, were also here, sharing anecdotes of life, or perhaps the recent weather, to a relative.
Unlike murals or sculptures, letters are supremely personal, devotional. They're mementos of singular moments in time, like portable time capsules. We write letters to our friends, family, even to ourselves. We write to communicate feelings, to inspire, to encourage, to forge or reestablish closeness. We write to better understand how we feel, or to remember what we felt.
To me, it is deeply beautiful. And I love the idea of blending the publicly beautiful (art) with the intimately beautiful (correspondence).
Sent with love,
Rebecca
