A Painting
Victor Austin
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We were in Wellfleet, a little village on Cape Cod, walking in the early fall afternoon through galleries not yet shuttered for the winter. I do not know much about art, but my tastes are catholic and my hopes open to the unexpected.
In the third gallery we passed little clay people in whimsical poses; turned left twice; and found the place we had, as it were, been looking for all along without knowing it. It was a small egg tempera painting, maybe six inches by twelve, in a rich mahogany frame. Inside the painting was a hallway: wooden floor, rich dark walls, passages or rooms to either side, a windowsill straight ahead. The window-panes were broken into small squares by criss-crossed wood, itself painted white. Through the window a garden could be glimpsed. No humans, no animals were visible; yet the place was warm with friendly sunlight. I wanted to step in and sit by that window with a favorite novel and sip afternoon tea.
All this, done with an uncommon precision, a style that that was utterly transparent to its object. My companion noted the magic of it: the wood of the walls, the floor, was just as rich and real as the mahogany of the picture's frame. I have seen many paintings; nothing outside a museum had ever before struck me as so perfectly crafted. In short, dear reader, I felt awe, and I was ready to worship.
The price was far beyond anything I could pay, yet it was the only thing I saw on that trip that I would be tempted to go back for. Indeed, that evening, I made brief mental calculations of what arrangements I might make be able to make. I felt like the merchant who had discovered the pearl of great price. Then reality set in. Was I worthy of such a painting? And how would I keep it? Something that beautiful lays a claim upon its possessor to ensure that no harm comes to it, and that it is not hidden away from the eyes of others.
No, it was better just to have seen such a picture, and it is the memory of awe that I will treasure. C. S. Lewis has a short sermon-essay called "The Weight of Glory." Each person we meet, Lewis reminds us, is on the road to one of two destinations: either to salvation, or to damnation. No person's ultimate reality will be that of our everyday impression of him or her. Could we truly see the end of the personal drama, we would either recoil in disgust at the horror, or fall down in worship at the infinite glory: and this is true of ourselves, too.
I am grateful for those moments in life when the veil is slightly lifted and a glimpse of the Glory shines through. They help me remember the great treasure, and the truly infinite potentiality, that lies behind the face I next meet.
Father Victor U
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