Yves Klein - Monochrome bleu sans titre (IKB 175), 1957

I'm thinking about Yves Klein and the purity of the blue he created. I watched the BBC documentary A History of Art in Three Colors: Blue and the host, Dr. James Fox, talked about how Yves grew up in Nice, France and loved the sea and the sky, loved the blue above and below. I think about his obsession with blue and think about my own obsession with grief. Could art exist without obsession? You have to be willing to come back to something over and over, to plumb it, to drown in it. Yves painted other monochromes besides blue. He did pink and red. He did the fire paintings. But blue is what made him famous and it's the most poetic of all his works. Blue as the color of infinity, the void.

I've always loved blue. I'm not obsessed with it by any means, but it's intertwined with my dreaming self. I've always loved looking at the sky. I've always loved water even though I've only been to the beach once. I feel I've lost so much of myself in the past decade. I'm not the dreamy girl anymore. I'm not that girl with her whole life spread out in front of her. I am profoundly broken and scared and paralyzed by my fears and anxiety. I guess I still dream. I don't know. I dream, knowing that none of it can happen. I don't know how to fit into this world and it's not getting easier, only worse. I don't feel alive. I'm pulled along and dragged under by the tide of life. The only thing that saves me is art. I stare at Klein's canvases and lose myself in their blue oblivion.