I have many eyes. Not just the robotic eyes which keep my treasures safe, but the eyes of the screaming man, or the knowing eyes of the resting tiger. What the lonely, the bored, or the jubilant don’t realize is that while they gaze at my countless gems, the gems gaze back. Visitors, whether they know it or not, are like the pieces of art I hold. They have stories to tell as well.
One person, however, I haven’t been able to figure out. One guest whose story isn’t for any eyes. One who keeps His secrets guarded like da Vinci’s Mona Lisa, daring us to challenge his secrecy. In His black overcoat, He stands, arms folded, in the center in one of my bleak halls. Scrutinizing my works. He doesn’t look at Millais’s Ophelia with puzzlement or wonder, but with such intense grief as if He personally knew the girl lying in the withering flowers. While some may be fixated by my works of art, I am fixated by Him.
And it seems like He may be fixated by me too. He visits me every other day at exactly the same time. 5:23.54 PM. Almost 30 minutes before closing. The marble nymphs that guard my entrance spy on Him while He sullenly buys his ticket. Works from the Romantic period scrutinize Him as he stalks the gallery, looking for the right landscapes to investigate. Unlike the other prospectors who move along as if in an assembly line, He waits. And ponders.
“What do you represent, my funny friend,” He asks Goya’s Saturn Devouring His Son under his breath. No one is meant to hear His query. But I do. And for the first time, I answer.
“What do you want me to represent,” I respond, using Saturn’s full mouth. Bloody pieces of child fall out of His jaw, catching in His beard like pieces of bread. I wait for him to react. Fright flashes in His face, but then turns to confusion. He stares at me again. I stare back. The hands that paint and care for my works are the closest thing to human I am. However, for a fleeting moment, a sense of human connection is felt between us.
He takes a brisque walk over to the portraits. Courbet’s Le Désespéré hangs in solitude. It seems fitting, as desperation is what humans can turn too if left alone for a long period of time.
“I want…” He starts, choosing His words carefully. He pauses as if trying to figure out my scheme. My game. I don’t even know what game I’m playing. The only thing I know is that I want Him. I want to know him, just like He knows my portraits, my landscapes, my soul. He ambles over to the final hall. Again, He gravitates to the loneliest painting, as if an instinct. It isn’t lonely on purpose. Many people are in it. But by virtue, it is the loneliest. Bouguereau’s Pieta.
“I want to know, why me? Don’t think I don’t notice how your eyes watch me.”
I respond with silence. I stare back at Him, unmoving, for if I even move, I drop what the Virgin is grieving.
“For our usual spectators, what they see is a mirror. A reflection of themselves,” I speak through a red-clothed Angel. “They see what they want to see, and that is themselves.” He nods. A pause echoes through my halls. I see him through the Virgin’s eyes.
“You. You see a window. You with your sad, keen eyes, and your knowing gaze. I see you, and I see the pain, the melancholy, and the longing of many years. Centuries,” I state, tears falling down the Virgin’s face. They touch Her Son like raindrops falling outside my institution. He steps closer to my gilded frame, His eyes calculating. His forest green eyes track the outline of the angels, the body of the Christ, and finally, look at my crying ones.
I want him so.
He steps as close as he can to me without setting off the blaring screams which also protect my treasures. If I could reach through the painted barrier, I would. I would feel his face with my hands. He would hold me tight, like the way true lovers do. Tears continue to flood my face. They are tears of grief or tears of heartbreak. Maybe both.
Even though the museum is empty, we are both so alive.
“Who are you,” He asks, His voice barely a murmur. For the first time this evening, I can’t answer the question. No courage within me can dare to bellow out my true nature. So I freeze. Something in the air changes. Before He parts with me, I see a decision forming in His mind. He takes one more step towards me.
He touches my face, and I allow him. No blaring. I allow Him to wipe the sadness off of my face. And I let him go. I know I’ll see Him again. Exactly at 5:23.54 PM. Because we are one and the same. Always looking for the answers to mysterious people.