I sat in the lecture hall, still reeling from what was easily one of the most mind-blowing classes I’d had all semester.
Days like this make me grateful—really grateful—that I chose Art.
Mr. Garfield brought in a piece from the early 20’s and told us to give a presentation on what we saw.
Not just the obvious—but what we felt, what it meant to us.
It’s always fascinating how one image can birth a hundred interpretations. Like holding a mirror to someone’s mind.
The painting was simple on the surface—a faded flower falling onto soil. But on that same soil, where each petal dropped, a tiny flower was pushing up from the earth.
To me, it screamed hope.
The large, fading flower? That was loss. An ending. The conclusion of something that once bloomed proudly.
But that small flower—that
