art

Impression, soleil levant (1872) by Claude Monet

Les Amants (1928) by René Magritte

Judith Beheading Holofernes (1599) by Caravaggio

In Bed, The Kiss (1892) by Henri Toulouse-Lautrec

O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,

The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won,

The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting,

While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring;

                   But O heart! heart! heart!

                      O the bleeding drops of red,

                         Where on the deck my Captain lies,

                            Fallen cold and dead.

O Captain! my Captain! rise up and hear the bells;

Rise up—for you the flag is flung—for you the bugle trills,

For you bouquets and ribbon’d wreaths—for you the shores a-crowding,

For you they call, the swaying mass, their eager faces turning;

                    Here Captain! dear father!

                     This arm beneath your head!

                          It is some dream that on the deck,

                            You’ve fallen cold and dead.

My Captain does not answer, his lips are pale and still,

My father does not feel my arm, he has no pulse nor will,

The ship is anchor’d safe and sound, its voyage closed and done,

From fearful trip the victor ship comes in with object won;

                       Exult O shores, and ring O bells!

                          But I with mournful tread,

                             Walk the deck my Captain lies,

                                Fallen cold and dead.

The Wedding Dress (1911) by Frederick William Elwell

The Swing (1767) by Jean-Honoré Fragonard

Tread lightly, she is near

Under the snow,

Speak gently, she can hear

The daisies grow.

All her bright golden hair

Tarnished with rust,

She that was young and fair

Fallen to dust.

Lily-like, white as snow,

She hardly knew

She was a woman, so

Sweetly she grew.

Coffin-board, heavy stone,

Lie on her breast,

I vex my heart alone

She is at rest.

Peace, Peace, she cannot hear

Lyre or sonnet,

All my life’s buried here,

Heap earth upon it.

The Storm on the Sea of Galilee (1633) by Rembrandt van Rijn

The Birth of Venus (1879) by William-Adolphe Bouguereau

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,

And Mourners to and fro

Kept treading - treading - till it seemed

That Sense was breaking through -

And when they all were seated,

A Service, like a Drum -

Kept beating - beating - till I thought

My mind was going numb -

And then I heard them lift a Box

And creak across my Soul

With those same Boots of Lead, again,

Then Space - began to toll,

As all the Heavens were a Bell,

And Being, but an Ear,

And I, and Silence, some strange Race,

Wrecked, solitary, here -

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,

And I dropped down, and down -

And hit a World, at every plunge,

And Finished knowing - then -

La Belle Dame Sans Merci (1901) by Frank Bernard Dicksee

Almond Blossom (1890) by Vincent Van Gogh

Christina's World (1948) by Andrew Wyeth

Humans are capable of expressing ourselves in an unique, marvelous way through paintings, poems, songs, books and so many other forms of art and we can't lose it, we can't let our hearts be shaped like the machines we see everyday and we most certainly can't let these machines overcome us in our field, our own creation, our backbone.

But, most of all, this is a safe space, a place to just breath and feel, feel deeply; a space to let your emotions flow without shame, to reconnect with your inner self, the one that is always punched back inside by the outside world.