• Vol. 06
  • Chapter 12


Kandinsky. Malevich. Miró.

To my best friend, a lifelong art lover, these were abstract pioneers who created their masterpieces in line with Plato’s belief that 'real art' – whatever that is – is found in geometry rather than realism, much like classical music.

“They’re so spiritual,” she’d say as we walked along the Tate Modern, ten times slower than every other visitor strolling along the iconic gallery.

“Yeah, they are,” I’d say to mask my impatience, secretly hoping to move on to the next room of pretentious art which I could once again attempt unsuccessfully to wrap my head around.

I knew what she meant, though. Much like Plato, I knew I was supposed to gawk at these so-called works of genius with a sense that I was gazing exclusively into the minds of composers my grandmother listens to, like Mozart or Debussy, richly evocative and a certain flamboyance yet somehow managing to be deep and melancholic.

And yet, no matter how hard I tried, they just appeared as if I were looking into a migraine; my disorderly aura rolled into fine art.

I felt bad for my best friend, the art lover, because as always, love had clouded her judgement.

After all this time, Plato had got it wrong.