I am haunted by Lost in Translation and want to cry but remember why I love art instead.

From Lost in Translation

I have thought about Sofia Coppola’s 2003 masterpiece Lost in Translation every day for at least the past month. I have no idea what brought about this haunting, but the movie slips into my mind when I am at work, when I am doing the dishes, when I am driving or making love. I have had many opportunities to watch the movie but held off until tonight. I watched it together with my roommate, but she fell asleep midway through on what is our fourth attempt to watch the movie together this year. She is asleep next to me as I type this.

I have spent my whole life trying to learn what makes art great and what is the job of the artist. So far, I am only certain of one thing; the artist must be fearless. The second quality is too subjected to declare with certainty, but I will never forget it.

I remember when in high school painting class I was transfixed on William Turner’s painting Peace — Burial at Sea. I was crying, but I couldn’t tell you why. It was beautiful, but not in the traditional way; it was horrifying knowing the people I imagine live within the painting will soon dye a horrible death.

I cried again when I watched Lost in Translation a year ago.