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There is a painting on the wall of Seto's office at home, opposite the warm, cherrywood desk. It hangs starkly alone, though the delicate shade of blue on the wall that serves as its backdrop glows lighter in places, speaking of other things arranged there once, in other times. It is high summer in the painting, with the most immediate feature the large waterfall spilling down the upper right of the canvas, cascading its way toward center. A fine mist hangs around the water as it plays joyously down grey rocks veined with silver and white, a diffuse halo that softens the air. The river that serves as its landing pad swirls through the horizontal center of the scene; a broad wash of power that sweeps the length of the day along in its wake. No less powerful is the car dominating the lower half of the canvas, clean white nose angled slightly up toward the river, two blue stripes running down its body like bold tattoos. The crisp line of the strong frame is broken only by the man leaning against it, arms and ankles crossed. The sense of leashed control in his posture matches that of the car, against that cool metal his black slacks and golden oxford manage to avoid being incongruous. His features are saved from being stern by the deep, easy smile he wears and the warm love shining from his eyes. Near his shoulder, on the roof directly above the drivers seat, close enough for carmel fur to brush into the jet strands of the man's hair, rests a cat. Paws tucked neatly before, tail curled lazily behind, the bundle of fur embodies feline grace even while motionless in apparent sleep. There is a third figure in the painting, facing the car, ruling the left side of the ground as a predator claims territory. Delight is apparent in the curl of his laughing mouth, the roguish gleam in his hazel eyes, and pleasure offered in the outstretched arm beckoning his companion forward. Potent energy is coiled in his form, a sense of vitality gentled and force tamed. The azure sky above them is empty of cloud or creature, the soft shoots of grass along the river bank unmarred by any living tread. It is summer and they are free. The painting is a memory that never was, a slice of intent frozen in potential. It hangs in Seto's office, waiting. Back to the Lost Gallery E-mail the Author Home |
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