Colour is much more than an ornament; it's a form of communication that leads to our very cores. Creators as in painters & artists have attempted to capture the absolute core of existence within vibrancy and with bold strokes throughout time. A perfect example is Van Gogh's "The Starry Night"; a cerulean pearl specked with a glow of hope and wonder.
Water Lilies engages stunningly soft and placid hues of pastel greens, delicate pinks, pale green and blue. These aids in all waters to become calm. Gentle brush strokes filled with synchronicity exude softness all across the world blending the entire sight. Boundaries are equaled and other dimensions become a reality. Monet’s strong brushes directly address to call forth the viewer with the love strokes and the alluring seashore of mixed waters in the course of contemporary art illustrates nature's harsh simplicity. Everything unfolds in an enchanted world without end while seeing the soft mixed tints of rose tones amidst the peaceful nibbling pond.
I truly love Monet’s Water Lilies because every time I look at it, it feels like I’m stepping into a peaceful, quiet world. It’s as if I’m standing by a still pond, where the water gently reflects the sky, and soft lilies float like little boats made of petals. The colours are calm and dreamy all blending together like a gentle lullaby for the eyes. Something is enchanting in the manner the brushstrokes flow they seem to be light and carefree, as though the wind made them. I can smell the fragrance of the flowers in the air, the feel of the sun's warmth on the water, and the stillness of nature all around me. The painting doesn't have any grand or loud message—it only asks you to feel, breathe, and slow down. It is silent, but it is packed full of deep emotion as if it is addressing the soul right directly without requiring any words. It reminds me that beauty exists in quiet, and that something as humble as lilies on water can contain a universe of feeling. For me, it's not a painting—it's a sanctuary, a warm corner of the heart where everything seems safe and gentle.
Mark Rothko educated the world, with his colour blocks, how sheer vibrancy can take us in its grip and create clean emotion. His art forces us to not overthink and see only the description— colour.
Picasso's world has a dual nature; is it melancholy, or is it gentleness? The blue period of masks reveals stark melancholy and loneliness that disappears in pink waves of softness in rose-coloured golden light during the rose period.
Raja Ravi Varma, India's most iconic artist, used colour, texture, and realism to bring mythologies to life in a manner that made the divine become near, recognizable, and intensely human. His colour scheme was lush, but never obtrusive—each hue had a reason, and each brush stroke had a story to tell. His work is a combination of classical European methods with Indian material, fashioning an emotional language through shades that transcended cultural barriers.
Consider Shakuntala, one of his greatest works—Varma does not merely depict a scene from an epic, he gives it longing. The gentle golden sheen of Shakuntala's sari against the light forest behind it does more than narrate a story—it transports the viewer into her waiting, her anticipation, and her love. The sun playing on her skin is a reminder of the warmth of feeling within. The earthy colours bring her down to earth, and the soft blush of pinks and saffron shades softly elevate the painting into a more romantic, ethereal atmosphere.
Hue in Varma's hands becomes a tool of narrative, a connector between the ephemeral and the mundane. His legacy teaches us that feeling does not always come with trumpets. At times, it creeps up slowly, through a subtle tone of gold, the subtle fall of a sari, or the gentle blur of a look.
One of my favourite paintings by Raja Ravi Varma is Lady in Moonlight. Looking at it feels like stepping into a quiet dream—one that is still, soft, and filled with unspoken emotions. There’s a silence in the scene that speaks louder than words as if the whole world has paused to witness this one tender moment. I love how the moonlight touches the woman’s figure—not dramatically or boldly, but gently, like a secret being softly told. That’s what makes it so powerful—it doesn’t try too hard, yet it says so much. The light enfolds her in a feather-soft caress, soothing and gentle. The colours are muted, little more than whispers of colour into colour, like a thought receding into memory. She appears to be in another world, and when I glance at her, I feel as if I'm entering that world with her—a world where I don't need to talk, but only sense. There’s something in her gaze, in her stillness, that reminds me of quiet moments I’ve felt in my own life—moments where I’ve just sat in silence, letting emotions pass through me like waves.
Lady in Moonlight resonates so deeply with something in me. It's as if the painting gets a part of me that I have not yet articulated. I feel acknowledged, soothed, and reassured each time I look at it—like the painting is communicating to me in a quiet, unspoken way, "It is okay to feel deeply, even in quietness." And for that, I go back and forth to it again and again.
Wassily Kandinsky said, "Colour is a power which directly influences the soul." And the next time you stand in front of a painting, don't just look and move on. Stop. Allow the colours to wash over you. Allow them to speak their stories—stories of loss and love, of moments that pass and truths that endure. And in that stopping, opening yourself up to see, you may find yourself feeling something amazing—something that makes you remember how lovely and complicated this world is.
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