Ahoy there mates and welcome to Jollyroger.com Classic Greetings (aka Classicgreetings.com), yet one more portal sighted and settled by the merry crew of The Jolly Roger. Within this port ye may create yer own original greetings by selecting from thousands of combinations of classical art, music, poetry, and literature. We're always fortifying and enhancing our offerings so as to serve ye better, so if ye have any requests or refinements, report them to firstname.lastname@example.org. 'Tis every sailor's duty to keep a sharp lookout as we sail on towards a renaissance.
I'm no art historian or anything, but I've always been fairly adept at enjoying a good painting. The thing is, I grew up in Ohio, and I was raised with an exalted standard and metric for judging all art. A painting is good as long as it's as beautiful as the September wheat on that last warm day of the year. I don't know if you've ever been to Ohio, but if you have, you'll know that there's always a girl somewhere in the scene, some implicit phantom of natural beauty. It might have been the one from ninth grade who was always dating the seniors, who one night during the summer's last party turned her eyes on you and said that she'd really love to hang out more next year. You barely knew her, which made the comment all the more portentious. And she looked a bit like Axl Rose.
Whenever I come across that pristine field of September wheat, whenever I see its semblance echoed within a work of art, I get that feeling again. Sometimes my best friend Derek and I are driving on by the field with the top down, talking about the eternities and philosophies that brought me so much closer to what Plato had meant than the entirety of my formal postmodernized education. We were on the way to an Aerosmith concert, driving along a road as straight as it was flat, and while the concert rocked, it's the sentiments of the conversation in the car which I shall perpetually yearn for. All was golden, with the setting sun and the wavy wheat indistinguishable in hue. Sometimes I throw in an Aerosmith CD, but it doesn't ever resurrect the depth of feeling. I can only ever feel hints of it when I lose myself in Shakespeare, and then it's not so much that I'm feeling, but it's that I'm thinking. And I say that contemporary art forms which encourage us to Think are few and far between, except for within the ports where the three tall masts of The Jolly Roger are oft sighted. . . Continued
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