I think those are two words that define a valuable encounter. I’m talking about a gathering of two beings whose interaction is developed infinitely
-… So, do you visit galleries often? –I asked.
-Every now and then. Not only in art galleries creation manifests itself. I can also feel it when I take care of plants, when someone offers a smile, or when I lay in the grass. For me, creation is life in action. And life happens all around us. Don’t you think?
She described it just as I felt it, even though I had never heard anyone express it in that way. A little while later we were on the street surrounded by people that came and went and I didn’t wish that our conversation would end.
-Jodie, can I invite you to some coffee? Would you accept?
-I can’t right now, Victor. I’m late for something, they are waiting for me. But I come to this gallery often…
-You haven’t even told me why that painting interests you so much –I tried to make her stay.
- Oh! That’s a long story. Maybe next time…
-The short version would do. Can’t you at least do that?
She was leaving.
-On Tuesday’s.
« Which ones? All of them? », I wanted to know.
-Lucky me, there’s only four or five of them a month. Great. So, will we see each other again? - I asked while she moved away into the crowd around us.
-Yes, yes –she waved goodbye with her hand.
She left without me being able to stop her, without the net I was throwing being able to catch her. She was in hurry, she excused herself. I saw her turn while she got lost in the crowd to offer me a consolation smile just before she turned the corner. Once again, her warmth invaded me. It’s something I cannot describe since I’m a painter and not very good with words. But I know she captivated me. In that precise moment, I knew for sure that I would again see Jodie.
And that certainty surprised and rattled me. How could Jodie, unlike anyone interest me?
I walked to my apartment, kicking these thoughts around and even others more vacuous, as if they were empty beer cans. My ideas rolled and rolled as if they had put my mind in a washing machine.
Once in my study, I turned my laptop on and sent Javier and e-mail: «Here I am, all set up, absorbing the city. Your neighbors, very friendly. Everything is perfect, nothing new to report. I’ll take care of your plants; maybe I’ll pick up the brush…».
On the inbox there was another one for me. It was a very particular message which gave me a lot to think about in at that precise moment:
«The time it takes for you to complete a job is the same time it takes to do nothing at all. Make good use of your time. Life keeps going anyway. There’s a certain cosmic rule for which we exchange our time -life- for the things that makes us feel alive –what you have lived- Which means, we give life to get life. It’s a fascinating exchange and without a doubt a fair one.
But if you hold on to what you can give, without offering it to others, then you make its experience something incomplete. We can all commit to a purpose in life. How do we recognize it? Asking yourself what it is, constituting your natural talent, contribute to the greater good by putting it in service of others. What would you make of your life if success was guaranteed? What is your secret talent? What brings more light into your life? A gift is not something we receive; it’s an ability we give to ourselves by exercising it.
We all have something to offer to others as incredible as it seems. The beauty of this day demands something from all of us. What are you going to do with this day Victor? »
Signed: J.
Nothing more than that letter.
I printed it and turned it off.
I read it again... «Javier, little by little, not so fast…», I thought. Truth be told, it surprised me that it came from him, since he used to express himself in a different manner.
Chapter Four
Javier kept a large amount of his paintings in the studio. I checked them one by one, I crumpled them, pictured what he was trying to express by painting them. I could hear inside of me the sound effect from each brushstroke. Each painting seemed better than the last, and with it my admiration started climbing on an infinite stairway. His painting touched me, it reveled itself full of emotion and strength, opposed to the bareness of mine. Javier painted with a warm subtlety I lacked. And he endowed with soul each one of his art pieces, while I was frozen lost in theories. The fact of being able to appreciate the huge difference between his art and mine, and at the same time being incapable of equating it hurt inside of me. Why had God given me the ability of admiring what I could not create?
Commonly, Javier used luminous colors, tending to ochers. He captured his particular universe through a wide spectrum of warm colors. I believe this was because California’s light got deep inside of him, fogging his palette. Frequently he would break this clarity with a violent gray trace. A gray that was not gray, but a black capitulation. I remember that once he secretly told me about his gray: it was not paint, it was volcanic sand brought from Chile mixed with water from no particular place. Those days I checked his fabrics once and again; with admiration since I’ve always recognized Javier’s geniality.
The studio’s door bell rang. It was Lorena with a message from her father: «He would feel happy if I accepted to join them for dinner», she recited all at once under the doorway, while catching her breath. And then added joking: «No jacket required». I accepted gladly. And something else, she had brought me an apple pie she had made herself for me. I thanked her with two kisses, and begged her to come in while I put it in the fridge.
She got interested in some of Javier’s paintings. I explained some details, balance, or unbalance of the whole, the dialog between traces and colors. I remember her absolute amazement to the argument avalanche which thwart her opinion that abstract painting doesn’t follow any criteria and that it is an absurd art.
-Wow, Victor. It is amazing how much you can draw from a painting, and you? How is your painting?
I was unable to answer that question. I wasn’t even sure if I could consider myself a painter. As if, after finishing that last cloth -on New Year’s eve- and washing my hands with solvent, at the same time my previous paintings had vanished through the drain. In photographical terms: an excessive exposure to sadness had veiled my complete work.
-You see, Lorena, I used to paint daily objects, very familiar object, and some portraits. It is called hyper-realism. It’s like taking pictures with brushes.
-Portraits? Like the one you owe me?
-Yes, like the one I shall someday make you.
-Someday, some day… I wished it were today so you do it with me wearing this new dress.
Years before, Lorena might have been a young lady with braces on her teeth, but she had become a captivating woman.
-Well, we’ll see, maybe soon. What about you? What kind of music do you perform?
-The
