I’m really not that snobby, but from my few visits to the Getty Museum (mostly for dates in which I pretended to know a lot more than I actually did) the style of paintings that have always captivated me the most are the impressionisms. I love the idea that when you are far away, it looks like an amazingly perfect painting, and the closer you get, the more you realize it just a bunch of paint strokes. But the real marvel for me comes when you realize that each one of those strokes had to be perfectly orchestrated along with the others ones in order to create the impression that there is a picture there at all.
There is a good reason I get so hypnotized by these pieces of art in particular. They are a metaphor for what I feel like. In all of my relationships, the further I got away from the person I loved, the more real it became. I could only ever see the full picture as soon as it was so far away that I could never be a part of the strokes any longer. That is the only time I was able to see that it was the strokes, not the picture the strokes created was what I was in love with.