Viewing art lets me write my own story. A new story each time I see another artist’s painting. A painting of a railroad boxcar and I recall the hobo, barefooted, taking in the cool breeze as the train passes under the High Street bridge. Then, the next time I see the painting, its Mom making a fried egg sandwich for a hobo at the back door.
Sixty years since seeing that hobo and the image is still clear when seeing that artist's painting. Like a band of brothers, we recognize each other through our works. That day, holding onto the hand rails, steps forward as I sip the gallery wine. It steps carefully and quickly, to catch the smoke barreling up from the giant locomotive. The engineers gloved hand waving from the side. Pigeons, racing from their resting spots beneath the wood planks of the old bridge’s sidewalk, soar out over the train yards. Still holding tight to the guardrails, my heart pumps with excitement.
What do you think of the painting the artist asks? “Nice,” I answer without relating the story . I compliment him on his choice of colors and skills with a paintbrush. Stepping over to the next painting, I'm taken to my Grandfather's garden.
