art.
Once we stood inside the echoing, tiled entranceway, I took Duke by the arm and steered him in the right direction.
“Come on,” I said, “we don’t need a tour group. I know this place like the back of my hand. Providing nothing’s changed.”
As we bypassed the clusters of visitors waiting for a guide and I pulled him out of the lobby area, I kept my hand tucked lightly around his arm. It wasn’t an accident, but I hoped he would think it was. I had to start somewhere in determining my level of interest and clinging to a muscular bicep was a nice place to begin.
“My favorite exhibit is this way,” I told him, leading him through the first several rooms.
“Wait, wait.” He laughed, trying to slow me down. “We don’t have to speed straight there, do we?”
I forced myself to join his laughter, though mine had an odd high-pitched quality to it, but I didn’t lose sight of my goal. I hadn’t brought him here for a casual tour. My forty-eight hours were still counting down.
Unfortunately, Duke couldn’t know of my hurry. He made several pauses before the more captivating pieces of artwork, and I was forced to stop while he admired them. My knowledge of the pieces appeared to impress him.
“This was practically my second home when I first moved to the city,” I pointed out. “I should know it by heart.” Then without planning it, I spilled out the story of how I’d loved art and painting but had eventually lost my enthusiasm after my failure to make a living from it.
He listened sympathetically, and I became so caught up in explaining my woes as we walked that I failed to notice where we were even going until we found ourselves standing before an immense wall portrait, gazing up at a youthful-faced women in a flowing red dress. The plaque beneath listed the name of the painter and read, Portrait of an unknown lady as the title.
“This is one of my favorite pieces,” I admitted to Duke.
“Who’s the artist?”
“You wouldn’t know his name. A nobody as great painters go. But I’ve always appreciated how the artist challenged himself in choosing to do this portrait the way he did. The subject is beautiful, but she has remarkable features that would be hard to capture on canvas. The lighting in the picture is unusual and the background complex. Everything about this piece feels like the painter was forcing himself to work under the worst conditions and enjoying the challenge.”
Duke studied the portrait. “I confess when I look at it all I see is a well painted picture of an attractive woman in red.”
“That’s all the casual observer was meant to see. But there’s a feeling that there’s more behind it, a story to be told. You’d have to be an artist to understand.”
“And you are.”
I hesitated. “I still dabble a little,” I admitted. “But I’m not great at it or anything. It’s just for fun.” I bit my lip. Somehow, brought out into the open like that, the words were painful because they felt so untrue. It’s not only dabbling. It’s the dream of my life . I wanted to speak up and correct myself, but held the thoughts inside.
Duke studied me as if picking up a sense of my thoughts. “Somehow I doubt that,” he said quietly. “You’re an intense woman. I can’t see you dabbling at anything. No, when you take up the brush, nothing will content you until you have made your art the best it can be.”
I gaped. “How can you know that? You haven’t even seen my work.”
“I don’t have to,” he said with confidence. “I know the artist and that, surely, is tantamount to knowing the work.”
My spirits felt oddly lifted. Even as I told myself it was nothing to get excited about, a simple compliment from someone who hadn’t even viewed what he was complimenting, somehow it stoked the fires of ambition within me. I wanted to fulfill his confidence in me. I wanted to be the best that I could be. Already my hands itched to hold a paintbrush, an urge I
Once we stood inside the echoing, tiled entranceway, I took Duke by the arm and steered him in the right direction.
“Come on,” I said, “we don’t need a tour group. I know this place like the back of my hand. Providing nothing’s changed.”
As we bypassed the clusters of visitors waiting for a guide and I pulled him out of the lobby area, I kept my hand tucked lightly around his arm. It wasn’t an accident, but I hoped he would think it was. I had to start somewhere in determining my level of interest and clinging to a muscular bicep was a nice place to begin.
“My favorite exhibit is this way,” I told him, leading him through the first several rooms.
“Wait, wait.” He laughed, trying to slow me down. “We don’t have to speed straight there, do we?”
I forced myself to join his laughter, though mine had an odd high-pitched quality to it, but I didn’t lose sight of my goal. I hadn’t brought him here for a casual tour. My forty-eight hours were still counting down.
Unfortunately, Duke couldn’t know of my hurry. He made several pauses before the more captivating pieces of artwork, and I was forced to stop while he admired them. My knowledge of the pieces appeared to impress him.
“This was practically my second home when I first moved to the city,” I pointed out. “I should know it by heart.” Then without planning it, I spilled out the story of how I’d loved art and painting but had eventually lost my enthusiasm after my failure to make a living from it.
He listened sympathetically, and I became so caught up in explaining my woes as we walked that I failed to notice where we were even going until we found ourselves standing before an immense wall portrait, gazing up at a youthful-faced women in a flowing red dress. The plaque beneath listed the name of the painter and read, Portrait of an unknown lady as the title.
“This is one of my favorite pieces,” I admitted to Duke.
“Who’s the artist?”
“You wouldn’t know his name. A nobody as great painters go. But I’ve always appreciated how the artist challenged himself in choosing to do this portrait the way he did. The subject is beautiful, but she has remarkable features that would be hard to capture on canvas. The lighting in the picture is unusual and the background complex. Everything about this piece feels like the painter was forcing himself to work under the worst conditions and enjoying the challenge.”
Duke studied the portrait. “I confess when I look at it all I see is a well painted picture of an attractive woman in red.”
“That’s all the casual observer was meant to see. But there’s a feeling that there’s more behind it, a story to be told. You’d have to be an artist to understand.”
“And you are.”
I hesitated. “I still dabble a little,” I admitted. “But I’m not great at it or anything. It’s just for fun.” I bit my lip. Somehow, brought out into the open like that, the words were painful because they felt so untrue. It’s not only dabbling. It’s the dream of my life . I wanted to speak up and correct myself, but held the thoughts inside.
Duke studied me as if picking up a sense of my thoughts. “Somehow I doubt that,” he said quietly. “You’re an intense woman. I can’t see you dabbling at anything. No, when you take up the brush, nothing will content you until you have made your art the best it can be.”
I gaped. “How can you know that? You haven’t even seen my work.”
“I don’t have to,” he said with confidence. “I know the artist and that, surely, is tantamount to knowing the work.”
My spirits felt oddly lifted. Even as I told myself it was nothing to get excited about, a simple compliment from someone who hadn’t even viewed what he was complimenting, somehow it stoked the fires of ambition within me. I wanted to fulfill his confidence in me. I wanted to be the best that I could be. Already my hands itched to hold a paintbrush, an urge I
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