The intensity of the eyes grabs me. I came to the art gallery expecting stimulation, but didn’t expect an attack on my senses this soon. Among the paintings in the gallery, this one captures my imagination. I furrow my brows, and walk forward to gaze at the weary eyes of the old man in the portrait, as they appear deep enough to accommodate many concerns. The stare I receive in return penetrates my being, as if forged in a furnace to burn into my consciousness. Is it because the eyes single me out that I stop to scrutinise the artist’s work? Like an urgent cry that demands I stay to pay homage to the craft of the person who, with random strokes, has given purpose to this man of mystery.
With one arm folded against my chest, and a fist pressed to my chin, I allow a finger to tap my pursed lips. I move from foot to foot as I study the dark swirls and contrasting lines moulded together to depict the ruddy, brown skinned, man who has known life. A sheen of sweat forms on my brow as I concentrate on the withered demeanour. His rustic look emphasises the appearance of one who has laboured under a strong sun; the shrunken features embody the fatigue of the working man. I stand in wonder and try to fathom the life experiences that make up this personage. Was he despised, or rejected, by those whose love, or attention, he craved?
I tilt my head to one side in order to explore another dimension, and the eyes stalk mine as if caught in a magnetic pull. In that perception of motion, I recognise a wise man. I stand back, and to the side. It is a dare for him to seek me out. Once again his gaze locks on mine, this time I see a question in the look. “Why are you trying to avoid me? Don’t you want to know my story?” I hear the words as if they are whispered in my ear, and I let out my breath, bringing my heart rate back to an acceptable level. There is nothing to fear.
Closer examination allows me to detect a surreptitious glint in his eye. I crane my head forward to investigate, and determine this is correct. Did I also imagine a wink? The frown on my forehead betrays my concern, as my mind is now awash with illusions. The man is now a living creature, full of character. I move my head from side to side, to absorb as much detail as possible. It is as if the painting has become three dimensional. Each movement I make promotes an inquisitive glance from the subject.
I begin to understand him. Yes, he lived a difficult life; as shown by his creased, weathered features. But he has also experienced many joyful moments. As if he reads my mind, he confirms the thought by widening his lips into a contained smile. Does this mean he is willing to disclose more of his secrets to this disturbed old man who is looking for answers in his own life?
He replies by telling me to look closer. I encroach further, and discover that every tortured line on his face tells a tale. Each wrinkle shows me a man of endurance, one of obstinacy. A man who earns his place by resolving whatever problem is thrown at him. Whether joyful, or sad, each crevice on his countenance invokes a separate episode of his existence, making up the total experience of the enigma represented before me. He dares me to match him, experience for experience. I meet the challenge, and I tense, as a torrent of incidents which epitomise my life course though my troubled mind.
It makes sense now. This is the place I always come to when my depression takes hold. The man is my friend; he is my counsellor. Each time, after a period of musing, reality pierces my brain with the ease of a surgical instrument. I know those eyes. They belong to me. I see them every time I look in the mirror. And my story becomes the man’s story.
I like this. The only thing that really confuses me is that in the beginning the process of connecting with the painting comes over as something unexpected, whereas at the end it's depicted as a familiar experience. I could be misunderstanding something.
With some trimming of the descriptive side it would make a really good flash-fiction.
Well done.