Mariana

Mariana liked art. The walls of her small apartment were filled with images that were divided into black and white photos, reprints of famous paintings, paintings by unknown people, and maps. There was so much thing on the wall that we could not see the color of the paint in some rooms. Could it be gray or white, who knows?

Mariana also liked books. Next to the paintings, books were the second most prominent decoration. Some read in half and others only clad. They had a captive chair on the shelves that filled her living room and her bedroom. Sometimes it was also possible to find them in the bathroom, next to the throne.

Given these two statements, it is impossible to say that Mariana was not a cultured person, or at least interested in creative and instructive faculties.

However, Mariana had a characteristic that sounded like a defect to her family and closest friends: She detested museums.

“Mariana, are they the big lines? Or huddled people? What bothers you?” Asked her sister.

“Nothing like that! I just don’t like to leave the house to admire works that I could easily find on the internet or on the pages of a book.”

“You are weird!” Disdained the sister.

Disliking going to museums sounded anti-cultural and many friends said that she should not spread the word.

But Mariana did not feel bad. Listened and ignored.

It was the beginning of autumn and the flowers, little by little, were going away and the leaves, which started to dry out, gained prominence.

Mariana stopped in front of a Golden Trumpet Tree and stood for minutes watching the yellow stepped on the ground, the little yellow between the branches and remembered Van Gogh.

Mariana could see art where many ignored it.