Sometimes the most amazing things happen.
Before leaving for home after a long weekend in a small village in Provence, I stopped by to speak with a local artist and visit the exhibition she had opened just downstairs.
While we were talking, an older gentleman joined us. I assumed he was a local acquaintance, and I felt somewhat embarrassed to be introduced as the neighbor recovering from reconstructive foot surgery, but I realized that the artist probably didn’t know my name. The gentleman just smiled. He seemed refined and gracious, from another epoch. I don’t recall his having said a word, except perhaps to wish us a good evening.
I went inside to admire the canvasses, leaving them to talk. In retrospect, it seems appropriate that I discovered a fascinating collection of abstract oil paintings, whose colors and textures made me think of landscapes from other worlds, like dreams glimpsed through a foggy porthole.
While I was inside, the artist came in and we talked a little about her work and inspiration, and then in more general terms about expression in images and words. It was then that I learned the name of the man who I had met a little while earlier. Read more of this post
The well-prepared mind 