"The Museum Man"
Part One: Meet Chap
"Why hello there kind sir,” I suddenly heard a friendly voice behind me. Up to this point I had been quite sure I was standing alone in this small but ornate room. Surrounded by artwork on every wall, I turned around to see who had spoken. I saw an eccentric looking fellow sitting on a tiny stone bench that I was also fairly certain wasn’t there before either. Since he was actually sitting, I was still standing alone.
In a very real way, he seemed to be a piece of artwork himself, though not on canvas.
On the surrounding walls were a good number of exquisite paintings, a few by famed artists, others by the more obscure. All works of talent and tastefully done.
However, looking at this chap who wasn’t there before, but there now, he seemed to be far more interesting than any of the surrounding fine art. Perched there on his stone bench, he exuded a unique presence, though I cannot figure out exactly what that aura comes from. Oddly enough, something about him seems vaguely familiar.
“Care to rest your old bones for a bit and have a seat? You cannot ask for a finer benchmate,” he says as he scoots over and pats the bench gently, and I sense a sort of happy glee as he extends this casual invitation.
Shrugging, I plop myself down next to him. I don’t normally talk to strangers, but he seemed so disarming, so friendly in disposition that I was compelled to sit and have a little chat. Little realizing just what I was getting myself into.
He was a strange looking little man. Wearing a stained and shabby tweet jacket. His hands were covered in brown threadbare gloves, and there was a brown bowler type cap perched upon his head, and it had seen better days I’m sure.
His eyes were shielded behind thick glasses. There were mild reflections of colored light in them, and I couldn’t make out his eye colors at all. Odder still because this side room in the Museum used only white light. One moment his eyes seemed gray, the next blue, and so on, like a shifting rainbow behind the lenses.
His age was indiscernible, he could be a young seemingly decrepit man under that outfit, or a meek old geezer with a spryness belying his surface looks. He seemed almost ageless from what I could notice, anywhere between 30 and 80, but I couldn’t really tell.
His features couldn't be pinned down exactly. From one angle, his face appeared soft, and from another-harsh. His ears were buried under his cap and tight curls of reddish looking hair. Nothing about his appearance suggested that he wasn’t amicable, and so I set myself to be friendly in kind, since I’m a sucker for interesting conversations.
“I’m Johnny”-I proclaimed, extending my hand for a good robust American handshake.
“Sorry, old boy, I do not shake hands, an ancient custom of mine” as he waves away my hand.
“Fair enough, what’s your name?”
“I dont have one really, but you can call me chap, What’s in a name anyway? It’s merely a given label, and I’ve never personally needed one anyway.”
“So you don’t have a real name? What about when you were born? What did your parents call ya?” I ask him, genuinely curious.
What’s a birth certificate?”-he replies.
This was certainly a wholly unexpected response. Maybe he had memory issues? I continued my questions.
“Well what does it say on your ID?”
“What’s an ID? Is that like the badges the museum security guards carry around?”
“No, not exactly. Where do you live?”
“Live? You mean pass my day-to-day existence? Well I’m here right now, and later I’ll be somewhere else. As you will be I’m sure”
A non-answer obviously, while accurate. Now I was quite intrigued, either he was a madman, or maybe a polite derelict, or something completely unknown, but weirdly familiar. Like a feeling from a long forgotten memory. At this point, I could have got up, given Chap a polite dismissal, and gone on my merry way; But I didn’t, and the need to pin him down, classify and yes label him was less idle curiosity and rapidly evolving into a compulsion.
The next inquiry came from Chap.
“What do you think of Art friend? Are you a connoisseur?” he asked, seeming genuine.
I offered my answer honestly-“Well yes and no, this is my first time purposefully visiting an art museum since I was a child. I’ve always loved Art, but it’s not that much a part of my own life. I had some free hours today, and so I stopped in. My parents claim they took me here once, but I can’t remember it at all, it was so long ago”
“That’s a shame, you should make it a point to see more art. It isn’t just a reflection of life, but the essence of life itself. I can’t seem to get enough of its beauty from this particular side, and art contains everything I’d ever require for my existence and fulfillment”
Well, derelict or not, Chap did seem to have a strong opinion of Art. For me, it was a mere curiosity, for him, a subject of deep fascination, and perhaps a bit more?
Chap continued on-“Look over there, see that exquisite painting of a mother and child? A portrait of life taken straight from living itself. It’s exquisite no? Art is always two sides, and therefore connects both worlds via color and perspectives. The models have passed-on centuries ago, flesh withered to dust, yet they all live here still, as the art, immortalized. Can you make such a claim yourself friend?”
I responded: "Wait, don't you mean living in the art?"
He looked straight at me, seemingly dead serious, yet his lips curled up slowly, as if in anticipation of some dark buried pleasure.
"Did I say that? Ah well, its all the same to me. Words don't always mean what we say, but they do when we are mean anyway"
Was this a riddle? A rhyme? Was this small man sitting here just some random homeless derelict? It was becoming less likely as we spoke. His words were conveying a veritable wealth of expressions as only a true master could. His eloquence was something I wasn’t used to, and it was extremely appealing.
I could not only comprehend but feel his words as a metaphysical weight. The impression he gave was as if he were Wisdom incarnate painted upon a canvas carved of flesh. He projected every nuance of his feelings through his words and mannerisms, and quite beyond just the words themselves.
