tangent

The worn out painting on the wall is timeless. Looking at the contents you could make a statement like "no earlier than", but cannot say when. The donor had chosen to remain anonymous just like the painter and did not furnish the details of its origin either. The colors and the shapes are not unique of course, but the blend can throw anyone off from trying to fix its origin. The scene does not contain anything unknown. It is rather unimpressive for that reason. But you can hardly call a painting, that changes itself, a painting, can you? No one else can see that. But I do. Everyone else sees the painting. I alone see the changes. I have come to see this painting many a time. On no two occasions has it remained the same. I spend a good part of an hour talking to one or more people standing in front of this painting every time I visit. I don't do anything else.

After an hour of pointing my finger and tilting my head while talking to a few people, I decided to leave. I turned right and counted my steps. I turned right again and counted four times the number of steps. I think I am getting old. I remembered that on the way in, after 5 years, I had to take a few extra steps than the usual. My stride has become smaller. I carefully moved down the steps feeling with the cane and once at the bottom I put on my shades and walked to the curb. I raised a hand. A cab pulled up. In the comfort of the cab, I chuckled. Then I became quiet just as fast. The joke's on me.