The Artist

Leonardo, Monet and Picasso dazzle in their gilded frames - even van Gogh with bandaged ear wears coat and hat, but he walks in with rumpled shirt and Van de Graaff hair, salted down to broad shoulders. He has invited us to celebrate the opening of the show, trusting the jury and judge in us will give way to a different point of view. There is no judgment of us who, for want of happiness, fill life with work and miles on the road. His art is an invitation to fill our work with life, to seize the view to which it points. Beneath that cloak of Sisyphus he has caught a glimpse, a flash of god like brilliance. The urge to create lurks, locked, looking for a handle, a door, a way out. He is grateful for a window in. He talks about the baseball legend whose life he framed in a moment, now displayed under lights and penetrating eyes. Another photo of his hangs hidden in a hall, but he neglects to herald the moment there, though no less wondrous in expression of that elusive passion burning in us all and waiting to be captured on a wall.