I had been once before, several years ago with my parents, but I didn't really appreciate the artwork. I would walk around, aimlessly almost, glancing at the artwork, shrugging my shoulders at each piece wondering what was so great about it. I don't know if I appreciated the artwork when I went back, but I know I enjoyed it, and that satisfied me. I enjoyed the fact that I could go with a completely different mind-set and be interested in what I saw. I felt comfort in the fact that I didn't have to enjoy everything, but what I did like, I could stare at analyzing what was going on in it. I strolled through the exhibits at a moderate speed; allegro to those musicians. I would see a painting or sculpture that I liked, read the blurb, and move on. There was one painting however that did more than catch my eye. It caught my heart and my mind as well. It was a painting by Van Gogh entitled Irises. It was plain on the canvas, but mesmerizing in some odd, unexplainable way. Canvas. Paint thrown on the white with mastery of a brush. A weathered pink background. Not hot pink. The color of ballet slippers. A pink that calms the mind. The bottom fifth of the painting, however, is green. Forest green with the slightest hint of white brushed on in a disorderly fashion, but not without intense thought. The green is used as a shelf or table, complementing the faded shade of pink. On the green sits a craggy, windswept, but sturdy vase. More of a pitcher actually; one that might hold iced tea or water. Not lemonade though. The vibrant shades of the pink or yellow liquid would be ruined by the scourged off-white container. The vase is centered, almost as if it were the centerpiece of a kitchen or even a dining room table. In the vase, flowers. Irises. Dark green stalks matching the table, with brown leaves, leaving room for interpretation. Dramatic shadows, or dehydrated and dying. Either way, sad.