artist's hands

We left the spring-like City around six, excited for the chance to tie up loose ends and expound on stories and thoughts sent via email. Happy for the in-person conclusions and live commentary, we each gave our take on the other's happenings; always encouraging.

Amidst the accounts, we'd stop and say, "Wait. What. What will we say when we meet him?" (A conclusion we never arrived at). How do you tell a person their art has changed you? How do you convey your fervid feelings of admiration and respect and sheer awe at their talent, all the while not making a complete idiot of yourself? How do you tell someone their art is more than a feast for the eyes; that it feeds your very soul? It fills you up and becomes a part of who you are. It means Home. Identity. Standing amid dancing figures and bright-eyed babes has become something very close to sacred. This is why we couldn't decide on a dialog. Why words seemed absolutely insufficient. Blank.
* * *
I love the photograph of Claude Monet sitting on a bench in his Giverny, cane at his side, one leg crossed over the other. A hat covers his head and his snowy white beard nearly reaches his belly. To jump inside that photograph, to sit beside him and ask why water lilies; and how, exactly, did he create that red that makes his field of poppies pop; how come the pink house and the green shutters? This would be an absolute dream. I'd want to look at his hands. To examine them. Hands of a master. Cracked after years of touching them to turpentine. Perhaps his thumb is permanently bent from holding his palette. His index finger some mixture of every color imaginable.
* * *
He looked as he should - we all agreed. There is a humility about him. Yet he is affable. Approachable. With a little prodding from his wife, I inched towards him and asked if he would sign my book. We exchanged smiles as he knelt down, using the desk. I paid close attention to his hands. They circled about, forming each letter in his name. "Keep the page open for a few minutes to let the ink dry," he said. He smiled and handed me the book, which was open to the title page. We took one more turn about the gallery, full of singing babes and dancing couples. I clutched the book to my chest with both hands as walked out into the cold Park City air.