The Art That Sees Us

My legs were softly carrying me through the museum's rooms while my eyes were delighted by the sight of Schiele’s majestic work when all of a sudden, I stopped. There it was: Schiele’s Mourning Woman. It was the first time I saw it, but I simply couldn’t move anymore; it was something beyond my control, my legs and brain weren’t listening to me, as if my entire body was drawn towards it, captivated by a much more powerful force.

Art is supposed to create emotion, to make you feel something and never before have I felt such a beautiful sadness than when I was standing helplessly in front of this painting. There is a particular darkness and calmness in Schiele’s work which filled me with an indescribable feeling of peacefulness.

The Mourning Woman is perfect in its irregular forms, in its apparent careless lines, but which are so carefully crafted at the same time. What you notice first are her big black eyes, which send out a gentle sad look in which Schiele seems to have captured all the pain in the world. If the eyes truly are the mirror of the soul, the artist must have surpassed himself; not only did I see her soul, but it felt as if she was looking straight into my soul as well. When you are no longer captivated by her eyes, you are finally able to see the bigger picture: the messy, slightly curly hair, the pale face contrasting with the hypnotizing look and red lips which take the shape of a subtle smile portraying the opposite of the traditional idea of a smile; it only transmits more sadness, a forced smile of a woman trying to seem strong while facing the loss of a loved one; nevertheless, the eyes will always betray her true nature. She is surrounded by a veil of darkness, by the cruel and unsparing death which seems to fit her frighteningly well.

This was a moment I have long longed for, finding that painting which speaks directly to me. It made me feel as if I was the only one capable of relating to her pain, as if no one before me could understand her like I did. I never knew the story behind the portrait, but I felt it. It was the darkness that dragged me towards her, the mystery hiding behind those blurry eyes. As it happens with all the books that have had a strong impact on me, I quickly started to develop this possessive impulse; I didn’t want for anyone to see through her like I did and I wanted to be the only one to learn about the obscure thoughts going through her mind; were they the same as mine? It certainly felt so.