Latin, of its own kind
People often say of a creative work that moves them in some way: "It speaks to me."
I've always been a fan of J.W. Waterhouse's work but could not quite articulate what I loved so deeply about it. Why do I love this so much, I always asked myself, Why do these paintings seem to be—through their strokes of light and leaves and mysterious girls—whispering for me to Remember?" It's an odd sensation, comforting and unnerving.
For years I've had a book of his paintings that I hold most dear, an attachment that made me always keep it close. Each page with a painting is a venture into another world lasting as long as I gaze upon it. My thoughts take the form of jumbled poems as my mind lets my spirit try to describe what it is seeing.
His work is indeed of its own kind. Synonyms for this phrase include alone, solitary, and unique. These are words that I've always felt closest to, they wrap me like a blanket under a winter's full moon sky. They are my home. Mr. Waterhouse's paintings do the same, the subjects, the colors, the way he painted light, they all wrap around me. Standing in front of one I feel will show me, or speak to me perhaps, of whatever it is I have forgotten.