This evening, I did something that I have never done before and it had my heart racing. It’s not the nervous kind of heart racing. Buying a piece of art is a whole new kind of heart racing-sensation.
My man and I (and son) went to an exposition by an artist from Brazil. I’ve met the artist before, and he – like us – had recently stayed in Brazil for seven months. I don’t know whether the piece of art I decided to buy would have interested me if I hadn’t been to Brazil. On looking at it, I was probably taking every stored memory I had of Brazil with me into my judgement of the painting. Did I fall in love with it? I can’t say I did. I suppose I fell in love with the concept of it. Perhaps the memories of Brazil will fade, even those stored in places I can’t always access. But what I will always remember is going up to the artist and asking what the title of the painting was. “O Mar,” he said.
I said, “may I buy it?” in the courteous way a handsome young man would ask a beautiful damsel to dance a waltz with him. He was in shock, he had clearly not expected anyone to buy a piece of his work.
He said, “my hands are shaking.”
“So are mine.”
And we shook those hands, each other’s shaking hands.