The begining of an Infatuation with Art

I was sitting in the upper staircase on the third step. The sun was shining through the gossamer curtain and warming the century old wood on the window ceil. The dusty smell from fifty years of built up spider webs and dead lady bugs seemed to be a constant undertone in the warm aroma that hung in the air. Somewhere below me I could hear my Aunt Linda laughing and my Grandma talking. The house was silent, and it always struck me as odd that the house never groaned during the day, seeing as it was such an old house. It was as though the house was sleeping in the warmth of the autumn sun. The oak and willow trees that surround the house would dance slowly in the wind as the leaves swirled around in the air in bright colors of orange and red. The mountains were blue and ominous in the backdrop surrounded with thunder heads that were dark and threatening. But it was warm and sunny as I sat on the step looking out the window. The crisp red apple I held in my hand was one of the last from the tree in the back yard. As I ate the apple relishing the sweet and bitter taste I gazed drunkenly at the painting in front of me. Various classical paintings lined the staircase; they were all there, my favorites. DaVinci, Monet, Rembrandt… I was never sure who picked the wall hangings in the stairwell, weather it was my grandma or someone else,but who ever she was, she had impeccable taste. I would stand there looking up in awe, with my bare feet on the glossy wooden floor. They would always find me there staring, memorizing, and imagining as I looked at the different creations. There were colonial battle scenes, ladies, men, ballerinas, people on horses, and one very small painting of Napoleon. Who ever picked out the art for the walls, they were not fans of sceneries. I liked that all of the paintings were of people. The eyes were always my focal point. I believed that the souls of the people that sat for the paintings could look out of the paintings and perhaps stare at awe at me as I stood there looking up at them. This notion got a little creepy on the way to the bathroom in the middle of the night though. During the day the house was a warm magical treasure of history and art, by night it was the stereotypical haunted house that adorns every Halloween decoration. I loved that house; it was the only constant place as I grew up moving from place to place. I have such vivid memories and so detailed that if I concentrate long enough, it’s almost as though I can time travel back to those moments in the grand staircase to stare lovingly at my art. I would give almost anything to stand in that staircase and breathe in the smells and feel the energy off of the house and see the paintings again.