Lovely

She didn't look like the kind of person who'd recognize a Renoir on sight.

For a moment, I didn't even know what she was talking about. Standing in the exchange line of the thrift store, I took her in again: red shirt, short, stout, no makeup, nothing in particular done with her hair. Definitely somebody's mom, aunt. Somebody who probably spent a significant amount of time in a kitchen somewhere. Somebody who possibly shopped at a thrift store out of necessity rather than the urge to make a statement. Somebody unexciting. Somebody who made somebody else feel thoroughly loved. A very real woman.

"I love that Renoir," she said again, to my "What?"

"Oh!"

I turned around the frame in my hand. Speechless for a moment, looking at it. I guessed it was a Renoir. I hadn't even noticed.

I ask, "Are you a big fan of Renoir?"

"Oh, I just like him. I like that style."

"Yeah," I agreed, looking at the long slender blue man with his back to us, looking at a long slender white woman, blue bows all down her soft front. I guessed it was lovely.

I wonder, "Have you seen any real Renoirs? In person?"

"I can't remember. I think so. I've been to that big museum in San Francisco."

"Yeah! The de Young?"

"Yeah."

"I love the de Young."

The line moved up, or I might have told her about seeing the Degas's there when I was young. About the tote bag I still have with the print of The Dance Class. How much it means to me.

At any rate, I didn't have the heart to tell her I was taking out the Renoir. I'd only had eyes for the frame.

I wonder how many times she'd seen the slender blue man looking at the slender white woman, bows all down her front, to know it on sight, sideways under a stranger's arm.

I wonder where she is now. I wonder about the next time she sees a real Renoir. I wonder how she'll feel, what it will do to her.

I buy my frame, which I'm going to paint gold and use to house a fierce and gorgeous movie poster. The subjects in that one ARE Looking at You. They are Close, and Daring, with ferocious, beautiful green eyes that you can't look away from. I've loved it for over a decade, taped to my bedroom door. That's the kind of art which deserves a gold frame, I thought.

It's sitting on the floor of the hallway now, that frame. I haven't had the time to paint it.

I glance at it each time I pass with the laundry, surprised by it, what's in it. How subtly pleasant it is. By how easy it is to look.

I notice the edges of Auguste's painting. I start looking and find another man there, and a swing, and a child, all amidst the sun-dappled trees. Everything is soft. Unconcerned with being seen. They're just out there living, but in fact— they are lovely.

I've never been a particular fan of Renoir. But— maybe I'll keep it. Maybe not everything has to be profound to be beautiful. Maybe the quiet thing deserves that place on the wall.