It's the look of wonder.
The questioning.
The wondering, when I told her that I wanted to visit old friends.
She didn't look fussed when I told her that I wanted to visit paintings. The friends were metaphorical, not physical.
"I don't come here often," she told me.
"You should. Good for the soul."
"So, what are we trying to find?"
"Bacon. Francis Bacon."
"Who?"
"Oh, he's dead. He was Irish and gay and messy, an iconoclast, and he speaks to the human condition better than anybody else. And I like to hunt him out. Hope you don't mind."
"I'm learning a lot."
"I'm glad."
We traveled from room to room, floor to floor, talking about all sorts of things, from her near impossible job, to my recently dead friend, to the joys of part time lovers, to the wonders of creativity.
"Art is good for you," she stated.
"Art makes us human."
We found some Drysdales - I resonate with his ochres - and the hardness. We discovered some John Bracks, out of Melbourne, so stark, yet so real. Of course, there were the Sidney Nolans and Albert Tuckers, staples of the big Australian galleries.
"These guys give me a sense of place.
"Do you think you'll find this Bacon dude?"
"Of course."
And we kept on chatting and wandering, until after a while, not too far from the front door, we found him. His self-portrait from 1976.
"He was a conflicted man. Tied up in knots. But what is that white dot? Is that hope? The soul? What is the box about? Why is he dribbling onto the floor?"
"So many questions? Is that why you like him?"
"Possibly. He just touches me soul."
She looked at me. "I could learn a lot from you."
"And I can learn a lot from you." I told her.
I didn't tell her that I could see myself of 20-year-ago in her, barely knowing how to feel, but finding that art opens up a whole new world if you allow yourself to feel.
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