The eye of the beholder

In the eye of the beholder



He was in his 70’s, even so, he had worked hard, often most of his waking hours. While many of his younger competition might have felt they had more energy, more vigor, and in fact did as his body was old, and his joints stiff – still they could not begin to compete with his 50 years of experience. They also could not compete with his uncanny knack of finding loopholes in almost any contract. He was not merely a contracts negotiator, he was the best of them, and his clients paid him well for his skills. They needed him, perhaps he needed them more, needed them for the most fundamental of reasons - to have purpose.



The day had been uncharacteristically stressful, he seemed off his game. The contract he was reviewing was well written, there on first glance appeared to be little that would provide his client the upper hand which often in the end, gave them the advantage in the deal of the day. He walked up the cobblestone path to his well maintained, Victorian style house. The house was envy of the neighbors who lived in newer homes, but which had much less personality. He did not have time to actually maintain the house, he paid others for that, and they did a fine job, not that he had noticed much anymore. He tossed the file on the desk in his home office, pulled out the wheeled leather chair, sat down and scanned each page seeking the one sentence that would provide the opening he sought. He had not realized how late it was, he leaned back in his chair and took a deep breath, he was tired, but nothing a cup of coffee would not address. Rolling his chair back the man tried to stand, at that moment his chest felt tight, he leaned back into the chair and closed his eyes momentarily – this was not the first time. Breathe easy, relax, he knew the routine, he opened his eyes which he knew would be blurry, but they would clear soon. After a few moments he started to move again, but his body and his mind were not playing nicely. His arms, legs, his neck, all felt like concrete, all he could move were his eyes, and his mouth, which opened wider as he started to fight for each breath. His vision blurred again and his field of vision narrowed until all he could focus on was a painting which hung over his desk. He loved that painting, and many of the others that hung around the walls in his house, all bought at various galleries or street vendors he used to visit when he was young, when there was more to life than work. His mind did not recount one contract he worked on, or the clients, or his fancy car. What his brain did recall was each of the wonderful pieces of artwork which he found he could picture in his mind, and he recalled the wonderful escape that the artwork had given him many years ago. He felt comfortable, warm, and knew his heart had stopped. His vision faded, and blurred, until all that remained was a wonderful mix of colors run together in an incredible kaleidoscope of pigments, light and shadow. The last thought that his brain would generate was regret, there was so much he had not bothered to see.



The man was young, in his late 20’s, single, well on his way to a long solid professional career, he made sure of that, working long hours so he could surpass his contemporaries, be successful, the best. He stood at the end of the path that led to the art gallery reconsidering his decision. It wasn’t like he could do any work while waiting for the next bus, another hour or so wait, having to wait, precious time being lost - did not make him happy. In fact he was angry; his day had ended prematurely and oddly. He had locked his keys in his office along with his briefcase. This was one instance where his working late, as he often did, worked against him. No one else was in the office to give him a spare key so he had no choice but to leave for the day. He tried again to figure out how the door had closed, it was not on a spring, and he knew it had been opened fully to the wall, how it closed, slammed actually, was beyond him. Almost as odd was the flyer landing at his feet at the bus stop indicating an art show. The show was still going at an art gallery a block from where he had been sitting. At one time art had made him excited, a lot of things used to make him excited, he wasn’t even sure if he cared at this point that nothing excited him, he had different goals now as an adult than he had as a carefree youth. He knew once he achieved a level of success he felt was acceptable, he’d slow down, get married, raise a family, he told himself that often, but for now it had to remain someday. He decided seeing the show wasn't that much of a waste of time, and walked up the path to the door. The door was locked, but the sign said to ring the doorbell, which he had twice, he didn't have time for this, and started thinking it was actually a waste of time; he began to turn 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. "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. "Did I miss the 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 art?" the young man contemplated what the man said and was trying to determine how to answer as he turned to follow his elder guide. "or at least used to" the old man added. The young man knew that was true, 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 – much like life wouldn’t you say" the old man inquired. ‘Perhaps” he said, humoring the old man. The two men reached the sole piece of art on the wall, a simple wood plaque, on which was carved – “Art is not just that which you go to see in a gallery, it is in fact life itself, yet the art of life is not merely in living, but in finding art in every glance, in every smell, in every breeze, and with each day. Denied of this, an entire life can pass without ever having been lived."



The young man stood frozen, ashamed that as he read tears welled in his eyes, in some way the words before him hit him like a blow to his gut, not just words but a reflection of what he had allowed his life to become. Glancing around he searched for his companion, who was nowhere to be found. The room was empty, he turned to read the simple plaque again which now appeared to him to be a much more brilliant mix of browns, hints of red, yellow, he could even detect a mild scent of the wood. He gazed in amazement at the plaque whose words had changed and now read “Choose to not just live but to embrace the art of life, and so now begin.”



He stepped back amazed, what a fantastic piece of art! Spinning around to look again for the old man still not in sight, he turned back towards the wall again to find the plaque now gone, only the white wall remained. He startled, and stepped back, fearful for a moment, then he smiled – the message, and the day’s events became clear. The plaque was gone, but he did not need it, nor pondered where it went, he grasped its message, and he knew his life was never to be the same. He still had goals, he still had aspirations, but he now knew how empty life had been when those same aspirations were not just a part of his life, but became the whole of his life. The old man was gone, and he somehow knew he would not return, the lesson was taught, and for the young man the learning just beginning. He now saw that the setting sun cast the most beautiful shadow on the wall, his eyes looked around the room , on the walls were wonderful shadows, reflections, the floor a beautiful maple wood, glowing warmly. He walked to the door, slowly, 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, as he opened the door. Before him was a world that had not changed, a world still full of light, of darkness, warmth, cold, compassion, love and hurt, but it remained within him to see the art and beauty in everything life would bring forth. Indeed to seek out the beauty life had to offer even when that beauty was reluctant to be found. Certainly he would not always succeed; after all he was just beginning to learn the art of living. He took a deep breath, making certain to detect the various smells the fall air had to offer. He staggering a bit from dizziness and realized he had been taking many deep breaths. He grinned when he noticed the path he had passed over on his way in was built of cobblestones, with grass growing between the stones. He reached down and ran his hands over the grass, stood, and stepped onto the stones, he felt as though he was a child again, and started to laugh, 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 and looked back. 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. He turned not towards the bus stop, but the other way, today, he would walk home, for there was so much yet to see.



As the young man walked away 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 many years since past, a man whose passions were lost to his desires, a man with many left to teach. The old man’s shadow faded along with the sun’s rays - tomorrow the sun would shine again, and a new lesson would begin.