The tour guide was rushing. I hate it when people rush by acting as if they are late for something more important; especially in museums. When I go to a museum I have a purpose, an incentive to be there, one that cannot be fulfilled when rushed. I take my time absorbing each piece. Stopping. Examining. With each piece of artwork there is a voice that cannot be heard, but seen. Anguish, Love, Torment, Tranquility. All lie within each meticulous brushstroke, each careless splatter of paint. This personal interpretation can never be rushed. The artists emotions spew out into the outside world via oil on canvas, acting as a window into their mind and soul. Each admirer viewing the piece relies on his or her own memories, emotions, and experiences as tools to take in another person’s expression of memories, emotions, and experiences—the two melting and bubbling into one another. The collision of two people into one piece of art; this is why art is personal, why art is moving, why art is the most pure and beautiful expression one person and one soul can ever create.