My 101 year old friend Mr. H. paints, everyday.
He is a tall, elegant, an aristocratic man who paints abstracts–
Cubes, figures without facial expressions, and one eyed boomerangs
in vivid color.
His paintings are his hobby, his story, his adventure.
He never sells his paintings.
One day I invited a friend to visit my artist friend. Though the two of them live in two different worlds–
A young man from America vs. a older man from Europe,
Antique dealer vs. modern artist,
Coca-Cola with a twist of lemon vs. Red wine vintage 1989—
They clicked instantly.
We were standing in Mr. H's studio amongst his hundred one eyed boomerang/abstract paintings that seem to salute us. Neither of my friends spoke the other's language so I elected to translate. Their conversation was full of art, culture, history and design. I was happily going along with the flow of their discussion when suddenly I heard my voice saying “…He said he would love to own one of your paintings, have you ever thought about selling any of them?” —Wait what are you saying— I turned to my friend and whispered, as if I was interrupting their conversation, “You cannot ask to buy his paintings we are here to VISIT remember?” At the same time my ears heard Mr. H. say in French, “Well, if you want to buy some of my paintings I suppose I could sell you a few?” –Wait what am I hearing-!
I turned to my artist friend and blurted, “I thought you told me that selling your paintings would be like selling your family! What has gotten into you?”
I was in the middle of my own muddle. Baffled by the change of events.
Later we drove off with fifty or sixty paintings in the backseat .
Anything is possible. Life is full of surprises.
My French artist friend sold his one eyed boomerangs abstracts… his family,
to an American antique dealer who proudly hung them next to his Maire Antoinettes.
A few weeks later a package came in the mail addressed to me. It was hard and flat. Opening it I discovered a painting of many short brush strokes in thick bright colors. Towards the center there were blotches of red brush strokes surrounded by greens and yellows. I held it out and looked at it, then I placed it on the mantle and stepped back, slowly I walked clear across the room to admire it.
On the backside of the painting a small one word note was attached, it read, “Bouquet.” Ah ha! A bouquet of flowers. As if my mind became a camera lens focusing instantly on the perfectly painted petals.
Life is how you see it. (Or paint it, or hear it or speak it… or translate it.)
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Note:
Re Opening Tongue in Cheek Antiques tonight at six in the evening.
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