Next I noticed a hawk-like bird with his beak slightly open, peering out over his kingdom. His black outer feathers made it seem like he was wearing a cape. His neck held a patch where the top of a tie would be, and his chest was the white shirt of a business man.
I collapsed on the bench in the center of the room. It was luxurious — cushy, soft, and perfectly suitable for staring at the picture on the wall. The light blue color of its padded seat blended well with the room’s carpeting, which was a mottled blue and black.
But, after a second of reflection over such an elegant bench, my eyes returned to the jaguar picture. A hummingbird, with wings flicked back in a hover position was posed at a purple bloom, sucking in some flavor. His neck was a burnished green. I wished I could hear his characteristic hum. Another hummingbird was attacking a pinkish flower, his beak at the ready as his blue wings fluttered.
The longer I sat there, the more I saw. A bright orange frog, his legs black, as were the spots all over him. A snake with splotches of yellow was wrapped around a branch of a tree, his body draping down as if he might fall. Over to the right, I discovered, hanging upside down, a small head and greenish fur — a sloth. The whole painted canvas was a textured painting full of life, and I absolutely loved it.
Meanwhile, Timothy had been watching me. “I don’t have to ask which is your favorite painting.”
“But the two ocean scenes by Turner . . .” I closed my mouth and turned back to the jaguar. Timothy was right. This was my favorite painting,
“Are there any others by this artist? Is he a local? What’s his name?”
“Yes, he’s a local. Yes, he has other paintings, but none of this quality. He’s young. Perhaps his future work will reflect the depth of this painting. His name is Juan Carlos de Santo. And as much as I see that you are taken with this piece, I think there might be a few more paintings I slipped in at the last moment, all local artists. Care to take the tour?”
I gave one more glance to the jaguar, then joined my hand with Timothy’s. The other couple who’d been checking out the paintings had already left, but as we exited, a crowd of people drifted in, and a guard stepped back into place. Apparently, since Timothy owned the gallery, he could visit unobserved. The freedom of such exploration was thrilling. Museum guards had always followed the three of us women around, fearing that our enthusiasm for the art might lead to soup tosses at the paintings, I guess.