others' opinions; their passions… a quotation.
―Oscar Wilde
I like this canvas by Kandinsky. It's called, Landscape With Rain. But it's not about rain―it's about him.
It's the same way when I write. Having my own voice has nothing to do with my ideas or opinions, it's how I portray myself on paper.
I'm in the art gallery on a rainy day musing about such things when most people would be oblivious to such considerations and content to go on about their lives.
Oh, I see them through bleary windows scurrying about like mice intent on their errands...
Oblivious of my meditations no doubt, but also oblivious of the rain.
To watch, poor perdu, with this thin helm...it's a wonder my life and wits have not completely ended at all.
"It's hard to tell what is life and what is art, isn't it?"
I hear a voice and look around to see a woman standing behind me whom I've apparently amused being distracted by rain and the art.
"I'm not sure there's a difference."
"And why is that?" she asks, furrowing her brow.
"A difference in order to make a difference must be a difference, " I reply and move on.
Her question bothered me though―put me on the defensive. Actually, I prefer Chagall and only stopped momentarily to stare at the colours, the same ones running and marring on the street outside.
But I'm not distracted so much as drawn to significance, or so I tell myself when I'm honest.
I wasted so much time in my youth wanting to be great when I only needed to be real.
"Celui qui se perd dans sa passion perd moins que celui qui perd sa passion.”
It's the woman's voice again―is she stalking me?
"Augustine was right," I nod. "He who loses himself in his passion loses less than he who loses his passion."
"Oh, then you not only speak French but know the quote?" she smiles.
"I spent too long in libraries," I'm afraid.
"A humble answer, Professor Wallace."
"Do I know you?" I ask.
She simply smiles and walks into the next room and despite my misgivings, I'm curious and follow but she is gone.
A gallery guard is observing my every move. Perhaps he thinks I'm acting odd.
I should go back in search of Chagall but my interest is piqued. I do something unusual for me. I approach the guard.
"Excuse me, but did you see which way the woman went that just came out of the adjoining room?"
He looks at me as if I'm mad. "I've been here an hour. You are the first person to come into this room."
"But I just spoke to her a few minutes ago and she exited through this door."
"You must be mistaken, Sir. As I said, I've been here an hour and no one but you has come through that door."
I feel foolish and I'm not going to argue, but he's clearly mistaken. I know what I saw.
It's strange but the encounter has upset me for some reason and I've lost all desire to continue my tour.
I leave the gallery and retreat to a small cafe on the corner where I take a window seat where I can watch the rain and the passersby.
I order a coffee and a french pastry and sit back and enjoy the rain, but my thoughts keep returning to the woman and the fact that she knew me and called me by name.
Is she in one of my lectures? I muse, and try to picture the students, but it's hopeless―there are far too many and I would certainly recall her.
She was beautiful, tastefully dressed in a tweed suit and with such a soft, distinctive voice. I stop myself. This is ridiculous, I reprimand myself, I'm obsessing.
It doesn't immediately quench my curiosity, but it does shut down my ruminating. It's useless anyway, I tell myself and try to get my mind on another subject, but it's fruitless.
Why didn't I immediately follow her out and find out her name at least and how she knew mine?
But after-thoughts never accomplish anything, other than inducing guilt and I've had my share of that and don't want to go down that path today.
Part of me wants to romanticize the encounter and part of me, the rational part, wants to downplay it.
It wasn't of great significance―just a bizarre occurrence in my otherwise boring existence.
I push the thought away and the woman along with it.
It was just a pleasant day and do I love autumn rain.