1.2 The Abyss of WonderLand
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.
1.1 The Abyss of WonderLand
“And the media who know nothing about paintings?” Timothy prodded. “They won’t learn anything by my extolling the uniqueness of each painting due to the artist’s use of light, the depth of the image, or the drama of the piece.” “I agree,” I said. “A painting needs to be appreciated on its own, from the way it makes you feel and the emotion it pulls out of you.” “Bella,” the man said, “You are exquisite.” “Enough, Danny. Go do your job.” With an arm suddenly enfolding me, Timothy guided me over to the right side and into a chamber that I actually hadn’t seen yet. “These are some new paintings I encountered at the last moment. I hope they meet your approval.” I almost didn’t hear him. I was staring at the one that had captured me from the moment I entered the room. A jaguar stared into my eyes, entreating me, his whiskers so detailed, I could almost reach out. His painted face itself was a work of art. He stood at the side of a forest, a rain forest, I presumed, but he wasn’t hiding. He was brazen, fierce, and challenging anyone who entered the room. I inhaled my breath and stepped forward, already lost in the enchantment of the piece. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t look away. The jaguar beckoned. “Yes, I thought so,” Timothy murmured, which was such an odd thing to say that I actually turned and glanced at him, breaking my trance with the cat. “He is wonderful. This is the picture that rules the room. He is so splendid all the other paintings must be jealous.” As I said that, another couple walked in. The woman spotted a painting on the right, one with a huge oak tree that seemed to age as the viewer looked. It was a lovely piece, but it didn’t call to me. I went back to the jaguar, soaking up his aura, feeling his greatness, and his vast courage. A hazy light filtered in from the left of the painting. I could see that it was approaching dawn. The sun was almost ready to rise above the trees. I could feel the moisture in the air due to the patches here and there of low clouds. But none of that bothered the cat. His eyes continued to stare into mine. The beauty of the rosettes on his body of tawny-yellow made me yearn to pet him. But his front leg displayed rippling muscles as if telling me that he could charge me if he wanted. I could almost hear him, that low growl of subtle challenge. He was peeking through a dense group of ferns. Above his head grew a slightly smaller tree with a banana-shaped leaf. I guessed it might be a rubber plant. And there in the canopy behind the jaguar, that dense green layer that enclosed the jungle like a roof, I spotted a blackish spider monkey, his tail wrapped around the branch of a large Brazilian nut tree. As I stared at the forest, I found a tapir, a pig-like animal that really shouldn’t be anywhere near the jaguar. Did he sense that the cat wasn’t hungry at the moment?