The Gallery
The Gallery
I saw nothing unusual after stepping into the cool, silence of the gallery. A few visitors moved slowly about, some stopping to study the art that hung upon the walls. While some lingered, some did not. I thought the artist deserved more. The scenes and the people depicted within the confines of their frames were in many ways alive, so why should they not be given the respect they deserved?
Flowing from the heart of the artist, through the tools, brushes, pencils, or pastel sticks, an image emerges that draws the viewer and allows him or her to commune for a few moments with those who, were it not for the artist, have a life at all.
I was suffering through a depression brought about by the abrupt leaving of my lover, partner, and friend. Though months had passed since the disintegration of my life, this was my first time back to the gallery. I remembered well the last time I was here. We were here together to view the works of Monet. There had been long moments of silence. Little did I know that even then, the love of my life was straying.
Finally, I summoned the courage to return alone to the Gallery. As I wandered aimlessly, glancing at this painting and that I wondered what had happened to my old enthusiasm for life and for the arts that had meant so much to me.
I glanced briefly at a painting of a Warrior Queen. My desire to move on was arrested in mid step. I turned to face the warrior. She was so alive in oils. I sat on the cool marble bench and stared into eyes as dark as the night sky, the gallery lights reflecting in them as the sun on a summer day.
She was dressed in black leather and bronze armor and sat astride a mighty war horse. Her auburn hair flowed outward in the wind. Why, I asked myself, was I feeling the same wind on my face when the air in the gallery was still? Cool, but perfectly still.
My surroundings faded when the warrior smiled, and held out her hand in invitation. She pulled me up behind her. I clung tightly to the warrior as she urged her horse into a full gallop and was aware of her fit body encased in leather, the hardness of her bronze armor, and the steady gait of the horse.
We stopped at the edge of a thick forest and dismounted in the glade where the tall trees concealed and protected us but did not encroach. The warrior placed a blanket on the ground and invited me to sit. I did. It seemed like the most natural thing to do. Then, the warror removed her armor and dove into the sapphire reflecting pool. Although I had not noticed the pool it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to strip off my outer garments and step into the water. My immediate reaction was the coolness and the goose bumps that appeared on my arms.
The warrior took my hand and led me to the center of the pool where the warming glow of the water and sunshine revitalized me. "You are troubled," she said in a soft, husky whisper as she led me to the bank where from her saddle bags, she produced some course but delicious bread and cheese which she sliced with a wicked looking dagger. "You have been troubled long enough. It is time now to face the future."
#
"Ma'am, ma'am, are you okay?" The voice was male, harsh, and intruding.
Too late! The vision of my picnic with the warrior faded.
"You must leave now," the security guard said, "we're closing."
"Yes, of course … I'm sorry … time got away…."
I turned for one more look at the warrior. Did I detect a smile that had not been there before? I believe I did. "Your name, what is your name?" I asked the painting.
"Martin, Ma'am." The guard took my arm. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"Damn you, Martin, for interrupting."
I left the museum that evening with a new determination to live my life to the fullest and to put behind me forever, the love that had failed. I knew now that the reason I had come to the gallery this day was to reclaim what was rightfully mine … the soul of my being. Something happened in the coolness of the gallery. I cannot explain what it was but I knew I was setting forth on a new path. It was as if the spirit of the warrior had remained with me and I was about to savor everything that life had to offer and to hell with the past.
Vi Jones
April 5, 2005
I saw nothing unusual after stepping into the cool, silence of the gallery. A few visitors moved slowly about, some stopping to study the art that hung upon the walls. While some lingered, some did not. I thought the artist deserved more. The scenes and the people depicted within the confines of their frames were in many ways alive, so why should they not be given the respect they deserved?
Flowing from the heart of the artist, through the tools, brushes, pencils, or pastel sticks, an image emerges that draws the viewer and allows him or her to commune for a few moments with those who, were it not for the artist, have a life at all.
I was suffering through a depression brought about by the abrupt leaving of my lover, partner, and friend. Though months had passed since the disintegration of my life, this was my first time back to the gallery. I remembered well the last time I was here. We were here together to view the works of Monet. There had been long moments of silence. Little did I know that even then, the love of my life was straying.
Finally, I summoned the courage to return alone to the Gallery. As I wandered aimlessly, glancing at this painting and that I wondered what had happened to my old enthusiasm for life and for the arts that had meant so much to me.
I glanced briefly at a painting of a Warrior Queen. My desire to move on was arrested in mid step. I turned to face the warrior. She was so alive in oils. I sat on the cool marble bench and stared into eyes as dark as the night sky, the gallery lights reflecting in them as the sun on a summer day.
She was dressed in black leather and bronze armor and sat astride a mighty war horse. Her auburn hair flowed outward in the wind. Why, I asked myself, was I feeling the same wind on my face when the air in the gallery was still? Cool, but perfectly still.
My surroundings faded when the warrior smiled, and held out her hand in invitation. She pulled me up behind her. I clung tightly to the warrior as she urged her horse into a full gallop and was aware of her fit body encased in leather, the hardness of her bronze armor, and the steady gait of the horse.
We stopped at the edge of a thick forest and dismounted in the glade where the tall trees concealed and protected us but did not encroach. The warrior placed a blanket on the ground and invited me to sit. I did. It seemed like the most natural thing to do. Then, the warror removed her armor and dove into the sapphire reflecting pool. Although I had not noticed the pool it seemed like the most natural thing in the world to strip off my outer garments and step into the water. My immediate reaction was the coolness and the goose bumps that appeared on my arms.
The warrior took my hand and led me to the center of the pool where the warming glow of the water and sunshine revitalized me. "You are troubled," she said in a soft, husky whisper as she led me to the bank where from her saddle bags, she produced some course but delicious bread and cheese which she sliced with a wicked looking dagger. "You have been troubled long enough. It is time now to face the future."
#
"Ma'am, ma'am, are you okay?" The voice was male, harsh, and intruding.
Too late! The vision of my picnic with the warrior faded.
"You must leave now," the security guard said, "we're closing."
"Yes, of course … I'm sorry … time got away…."
I turned for one more look at the warrior. Did I detect a smile that had not been there before? I believe I did. "Your name, what is your name?" I asked the painting.
"Martin, Ma'am." The guard took my arm. "Are you sure you're okay?"
"Damn you, Martin, for interrupting."
I left the museum that evening with a new determination to live my life to the fullest and to put behind me forever, the love that had failed. I knew now that the reason I had come to the gallery this day was to reclaim what was rightfully mine … the soul of my being. Something happened in the coolness of the gallery. I cannot explain what it was but I knew I was setting forth on a new path. It was as if the spirit of the warrior had remained with me and I was about to savor everything that life had to offer and to hell with the past.
Vi Jones
April 5, 2005
posted by Vi Jones @ 9:54 AM
3 comments
3 Comments:
Oooh, Goosebumps indeed! This is so lovely, Vi! I have wanted to walk into so many paintings, wondered what was happening behind the draped curtain, what made the figure’s lips lift in just such a way. How lovely to have really GONE and to come back with such knowledge, such strength to go on with the future. I do love Monet, but how lucky for your character that the Monet exhibit had gone! And about Martin! I have another story about him I think . . .
Winnie, I've always wanted to walk into paintings to see what is hidden behind the oils, to know more of the people depicted therein. Galleries stimulate the imagination much like the words of Shakespeare touch our soul.
Vi
The sensuality of this piece quite took my breath away Vi. I recall taking a group to our State Gallery and we spent an idyllic hour wandering inside paintings that hung on the wall. Memories of that day just came flooding back. Thank you!
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