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Continued from Stories from an estate sale (part 2)

I pulled the pressed wood out of the accordion file and sat in awe of the paint-splattered palette. I imagined him with curly brown locks extending almost to his shoulders with a ringlet  constantly hanging irritatingly over one eye. His paint-covered hands and brushes creating a menagerie of color in the sink at the end of the day. I noticed the wooden floor beneath my feet and imagined him in that study, which is what I deemed it to be, while studying each painting in the natural light of the floor-to-ceiling windows.

Excited to learn more about him, I pulled out the next item in the accordion folder. Another month of “art”, this time, September.

Sighing as I laid the folder on the floor, I began staring at the titles of books on the shelves. Most of them were in spanish. Asian art and furniture. Clowns. Ten years’ worth of monthly calendar “art”. Spanish books.

The artist who lived here aroused more curiosity than he provided answers. After moving through the rest of the upstairs floor, other rooms, clothes, nothing revealing about who he was, I relished the thought that it didn’t matter. The man who lived here led a life that involved varied subjects. Even if he wasn’t an actual artist but instead traced pictures of clowns and collected calendar “art” along with furniture that was artwork by itself, he appreciated art to some degree. He could read at least one other language. I knew him, even if a very small part of him, but I knew him. He mattered.

His things mattered enough for me to wonder about who he was and what he was like in his life. What an honor it is to have seen some of his possessions, to appreciate who he was, and to appreciate what I imagine to be his story. If nothing else, my curiosity inspired my imagination…again.

“The mind is not a vessel to be filled, but a fire to be kindled.”
― Plutarch

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