I could feel the heat radiating from the wall behind me. It had been baking all day in the direct sunlight and now, as the sun was setting, it was releasing that stored energy, gently warming my back and ensuring that, even though it would soon be dark, the residual heat meant that there would not be a chill in the air this evening. The glass of Rioja in my hand was gently warm and very smooth, the iron railing dividing us from the street below, where tapas bars were beginning the evening’s bustling energy.
The scent of her was distinctive. Fresh and newly showered and with an aroma of that perfume I know well by now, she leaned gently back onto my chest, lifted her chin gently and asked, “So where are we dining this evening?”
That whole sequence of thoughts went rushing through my head as I saw this painting for the first time. I am not a huge art enthusiast. That’s not to say that I don’t like art, I really do. It’s simply that it doesn’t often grab me in the way that this painting did. I almost walked past the gallery, was persuaded to step inside by my son and his friend. Then I saw it and for some reason, I do not know why, it grabbed my attention and held me there.
And as I stood and let my eyes drink in the scene, those were the thoughts that rushed through my mind in one, fast sequence.
I could feel the warmth in the buildings at the end of the day. One of the things I love so much about southern Europe, walls still warm to the touch after a day of blazing sunlight.
The temperature dropping to a residual warmth that you know will continue into the evening and mean that you’re not going to need anything more that a light jacket.
And anyway, that jacket would probably be used to cover the shoulders of your female companion.
The warmth of the Rioja in my hand I could imagine right away. Could smell the blackberry nose of my favourite Spanish wine, feel the gentle weight of the contents of the glass, knowing that I can take my time in drinking it, as the evening is young and in this part of the world, nobody eats much before 9:00pm anyway.
And the companion? Who knows? As I stood there taking in the painting, more thoughts rushed into my head.
The scent of her perfume I could imagine, the aroma of her newly showered body too, complete with something that she always puts on her hair that leaves a fragrance in the air as she walks along the street. And the gentle warmth of her body as she leans back towards me, lifts her head and asks where we are dining.
I’ve never been hit with a whole rush of thoughts like this before. The artist is called Fabian Perez and for some reason he reached into my head with that painting and inspired me to write how I felt, words rushing out in a way I have not been able to recently.
The rest of his collection is equally inspiring and for me, I’m enthusiastic about a single person’s art in a way I have never felt before. I love the Provence painters, I laugh out loud at some of Dali’s creations.
Yet never before have I been inspired to simply pour words out about a single artwork, or a single artist’s body of work.
Thank you Fabian for releasing the brakes on my writing and inspiring me to write something simply because I love it, for the joy of putting words out onto a page.
You’ve reminded me that the female human form is truly a moving work of art in itself. And that the aromas, feelings, sights and tastes of life are things that we really, really should not take for granted.
To good times.