Anon Guest Post
Ξ September 3rd, 2009 | → 5 Comments | ∇ guest posts |
A friend of a friend is a writer at heart. He wrote a short story that I knew immediately I had to post. Had to. Let me know if it speaks to you the way it did to me.
He wasn’t sure why he came to see the show, he loved art, or really used to love art, he used to love a lot of things. It seemed that there was little that could stir him anymore, he even stopped caring that nothing excited him anymore. Still, he was here, and at one time art made him excited, so it wasn’t that much a waste of time. The door was locked, but the sign said to ring the doorbell, which he had twice, he didn’t have time for this, it is a waste of time, he almost started to leave when the door started to open.
I am here to see the art show he said, the young man standing in the doorway. “Then please, come in” the old man motioned. He walked in and looked around at the large, long room with white walls, bare, except for one small plaque at the end of the long room. “I’m sorry, have I missed the art show?” he asked. “Not at all, but it is not a large show, it is made of one simple piece” the old man smiled, “I’ll take you to it”. The young man started to open his mouth to speak as he glanced around the bare walls. “So”, the old man said interrupting, “you love beauty?” “I do” the young man said, turning to walk with along with his elder guide. “or at least used to” the old man added. It was true the young man knew, but still it was an odd thing for the old man to say. The walk was slow for the old man seemed to walk with stiff legs, and slightly bent as if with a sore back, still he managed to speak with ease “Yes, it is a beautiful thing to see art, but that is only what has been captured by the artist, as they say, beauty is in the eye of the beholder – and if one opens his eyes wide enough, even a dark room can have beauty”. The young man tried to comprehend what he had just heard, but they at least reached the sole piece of art on the wall, a plaque, on which the young man read – Beauty, and the art of the world is not that which you go to see, but that which surrounds you, in every glance, in every smell, in every breeze, for beauty and art is not an object, it is life itself.
The young man stood frozen, ashamed that as he read, reread, and again reread what the plaque offered, he had tears in his eyes. Slowly glancing he looked for his companion, who was nowhere to be found. The room was empty, again he turned to read the plaque, to his surprise it too was gone, only the white wall remained. He startled, and stepped back, fearful for a moment, then he smiled, the setting sun cast the most beautiful shadow on the wall, he turned to look at the room again, and on the walls were wonderful shadows, reflections, and the floor a beautiful maple wood, glowing warmly. The plaque was gone, but he did not need it, nor pondered where it went, he knew every word, and he knew his life was never to be the same. He walked to the door, slowly, for even thought the old man was gone, he walked slow admiring every shadow, every knot in the wood, every reflection. His hand felt the brass door handle, and he felt the coldness, and smoothness of the brass, smiling he opened the door. Before him was a world he had forgotten. He breathed in deeply, staggering a bit from dizziness as he realized he had been taking many deep breaths. He laughed, and saw that the walkway he had passed over on his way in was built of cobblestones, with grass growing between the stones. He took off his shoes and socks, and stepped onto the stones, he felt as though he was a child again, and started to laugh, and he walked, he walked down the path admiring every flower, the settings sun, the breeze, and grass, and as he reached the end of the path he turned, the house was old, and broken down in many ways, but he saw that even the peeling paint was beautiful. “Thank you old man” he whispered.
As he walked away with a bounce to his steps, whistling, the suns final rays for the day shown through the window of the empty old house devoid of any living occupant. Still a shadow was cast upon the floor of a very old man, the shadow of a man hundreds of years since past, of an artist, of a man no longer there, but a man with still many to teach, and along with the sun’s rays faded away knowing tomorrow the sun would shine again.