Looking upon Vincent van Gogh’s paintings for the first time, I found myself incredibly moved. In a gallery of paintings and portraits featuring naked babies or figures from myth and legend, I was so drawn—perhaps inexplicably—to van Gogh’s Long Grass with Butterflies, Van Gogh’s Chair, or (my favourite) Sunflowers.

In Nottingham, I watched my new friend (a visual artist) peer closely at the paintings in the museums at Oxford. When I asked her why, she explained that she was interested in the brush strokes and how smooth they were. With that being said, and upon closer inspection, I realized that what I was looking at was actually manufactured light and shadow, that brush strokes should be evident, though they weren’t unless you looked closely.

Among other reasons, perhaps exceptionally thick brush strokes were why I was so drawn to van Gogh’s paintings. My first thought, almost exactly, was “Like a child.” Looking at van Gogh’s art, I found myself thinking of children finger painting with reckless abandon. I felt like the paintings evoked a sense of desperate aliveness, in contrast to what I knew about van Gogh’s life. (Thanks, Doctor Who.) More than that, van Gogh’s attention to colour was nothing else like I’d seen: I tired of the chiaroscuro style I saw in the previous gallery with Rembrandt, where I couldn’t see certain parts of the painting depending on the gallery light and where I was standing (and I liked to stand close to paintings now, to see brushstrokes, as you know). With van Gogh, everything is bright no matter where you stand… even the darkness, somehow.

I truly appreciated that everyone was drawn to Sunflowers. For a man with such a turbulent life to be remembered for the sunniest of paintings… I was so moved, so grateful that I got to be one of those people drawn to the simple vase of flora, to look so closely that I can see his brush strokes.

I wasn’t expecting to love Shakespeare’s Globe as much as I do. Watching Twelfth Night was not as I expected—for one thing, the show was quite a diversion from the original text—but I was delighted nonetheless, and watching the play was certainly worth standing for hours. (Although I might splurge on a ticket with a seat next time.)

The experience was a marriage of my top interests during my grade 12 year of high school, which was composed of late nights at the theatre and taking as many English courses as my school allowed. Because of this, my younger self was having a grand ol’ time at the Globe, although my current self certainly was, too. The Globe’s production of Twelfth Night turns the play into somewhat of a triple threat exhibition, and I was happy to be able to marvel at the amazing dance and song as much as their acting.

Anyone who knows me knows that my favourite thing, in general, comes in any form of top-notch storytelling, which Twelfth Night certainly was. You don’t have to understand Elizabethan or Shakespearean English to laugh at the jokes, to cry when the characters cry, to feel the sense of dramatic urgency or irony that the play creates. So the production was a success in my books.

I’ve discovered that the experience of art at its best is necessarily intimate. Leaning against the Globe stage, I could look into Orsino’s eyes, see Malvolio’s feet shuffle with every stressed syllable, hear Maria’s voice from her mouth rather than the speakers, even see Feste spit out his words on every bilabial stop. (Thanks, ENGL 330, for teaching me about bilabial stops.) These moments were when I forgot how tired I was, how much I wanted to sit down. Being so close to see eyeliner, or nylon stockings, for only £5!

Although I can’t believe I come across toilets that cost (only 20p, but still!) to use, or that some restaurants charge more for sitting down at one of their tables, I love London for the culture it shares so generously. I didn’t have to pay a penny to see van Gogh, and I’ve paid more for some meals than I did to see such an excellent production of a Shakespeare play on the very site where Shakespeare himself once stood. And for that, I may have to forgive London for charging to use toilets or eat in at restaurants.