We usually think of art as something that hangs on a wall, rests on a pedestal, or plays through our headphones. But art is not fixed. It is alive. It moves, bends, and opens time in ways we rarely pause to notice.

I was reminded of this when my brother saw one of my paintings — a bridge awash in golden light. He grew quiet and told me about his near-death experience years ago. In that threshold moment, he too saw a luminous crossing, a place between worlds. My painting didn't just remind him — it transported him. In an instant, he was back there, standing inside memory and mystery.

This is what art can do. It doesn't just represent; it reactivates. It gathers the past, present, and future into a single moment and hands it back to us.

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When art speaks across time

Every creative act carries an imprint of the moment it was born. A brushstroke holds the energy of a heartbeat; a phrase carries the breath of the one who wrote it. When another person encounters the work, it is as if they touch that moment directly.

That's why ancient cave paintings still pulse with power. They are not relics but transmissions. The handprint of a human from 20,000 years ago still whispers: I was here. And now you are too.

When we truly listen, we hear more than the image — we hear our own soul stirred awake. A memory, a longing, or even a glimpse of the future is called forward.

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The living dialogue

Art as time travel isn’t passive. It asks us to participate, to notice what is being stirred and to let it shape us. My brother could have dismissed his memory as coincidence. Instead, he leaned in. He listened. And in that listening, the painting became more than an image — it became a bridge that connected his life then and his life now.

This is the deeper invitation of art: to treat each encounter as a conversation. Not just "I like this" or "I don’t." But What is this showing me? Why did it arrive now? What is it asking of me?

When we listen at that level, art becomes a guide. It reminds us of what we’ve forgotten, or it shows us what we’re becoming. Sometimes it returns us to an old wound, so we can finally see it with new eyes. Sometimes it lifts us into a vision of who we could be.

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The shift in perspective

What would change if we began to approach art this way—not as something to consume, but as something to commune with? We might discover that every encounter with creativity is a moment of time travel. A chance to remember, to reimagine, to realign.

And maybe that’s the real gift: art isn’t here to decorate our lives. It’s here to stretch them. To collapse time until all that remains is the truth we most need to see. 🖌

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Copyright ©2025 Angela Blaha. All rights reserved.

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