There was this sale. It was an estate of some sort. A family member no longer. The other members sifting through the pieces, filing paperwork, and attempting to make sense of a future missing a piece. Articles of belonging, faith, compulsion, and knowledge. Acquired. Pursued. Collected.
Sorting the debris, walking the dry fields. Particles exposed to the elements of wind, sun, and rain. It’s only temporary but the exposure heightens the feel. Buyers come and go, sorting and sifting, some knowing what they view and others just browsing to kill pandemic time.
Inside a box of German language literature and naturalist books lives a lost set of paints. Watercolors. Upside down and loose, untouched by human hands or ideals for at least some time. I must save them. I must.
Crouching in the dirt I attempt to feel what colors go where. How can I connect to the person who fouled these perfect rectangles in an attempt to right the beauty of the world something we seem to drift further and further from on a daily basis. Redwoods fall, birds fall, logic and reason follow suite.
There is such beauty in a small thing. Righted, positioned, and offered up to someone else who feels the pull. This tin isn’t much. Less than a coffee but the return on intentional investment is beyond compare. Endless and shining a light on what you already know but learned to unsee.
And then a crouch. Hands fondling my work. A face that betrays the calm they hope to convey. A better, perhaps. And it goes. The exchange. The tin closed and waiting. Inside a bag. Inside a car and away. Waiting for what happens next.