I think dance is one of the most beautiful art forms. It comprises the composition of paintings, the dimensionality of sculpture, the intense humanity of theater, the beautiful math of music and the motion of film. It requires rigor in physicality, emotion and intellect. My love for dance likely stems from my roots in it. Both of my parents were professional ballet dancers and now are ballet teachers. It has been infused in my blood. The unfettered beauty of Swan Lake or Harbinger or any number of classical or modern ballets, speaks volumes beyond what any other art could say. They reach into your soul and fill you with what it means to be human. At least good dance does.
Somehow I have found myself rambling. My apologies.
These swinging paintings that we have looked at, in particular Jean-Honore Fragonard's The Swing, captivate a dance-like motion through the air. In The Swing, the woman's foot points toward the man, forming the graceful movement of a ballet dancer's. His hand reaches out to her with inconceivable grace. She seems as if she will fly from the swing and land softly in his outstretched arms.
He will lift her gently into the air so that she may stretch her body into a bow, her arms reaching toward heaven, her feet toward earth.
Then they will fall to the ground and embrace.
Their love is theirs.
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