I thought of you today.

It’s funny how we think, have you ever thought of that? It’s not like in the movies, where some super-human power can read minds like a book, as though thoughts are orderly and coherent. Thoughts aren’t like the words we speak or the sentences we write, where muddled ideas are distilled into something comprehendible. They are layers of threads, woven together and still being woven; words and images inextricably connected. A thought starts then springs to a tangent, which springs to another tangent, which springs to another tangent...but I digress.

I was thinking of how I thought of you today. It was Caravaggio; I was thinking of Caravaggio and a thread of a tangent led me to see your face. I immediately recalled the atmosphere the first and last time I saw you: stuffy, suppressed, and apathetic in the way only art galleries can be. The small room was crowded with people and opinions, and I was frustrated. Most of them were part of a school group, and I guessed they were around my age, maybe a few years younger. Still, I regarded them with an air of superiority: how could they possibly appreciate art if they were being dragged around by a menopausal teacher like a herd of sheep being cordoned by a wolf? They were buzzing with pent up energy and stifled laughs, little elbows eager to find a rib at the sight of a nude figure. Their faces displayed the universal expression of teenage boredom, and they were completely indifferent to the other museum-goers. I decidedly steered into the throng, eyes blazing with determination, until I came through to the end of the room. A shield stood before me. It was Caravaggio’s Medusa.

In seconds I had given in to the painting. Out of habit and guilt I observed the technique and applied what I had been taught of iconography to my analysis, but I was unable to resist that pull which accompanies a good work of art: the desire to throw your heart at the canvas and let it consume you. There is something about Caravaggio for me: I never fail to be moved by the expressiveness of his eyes. They are soul-searching eyes. And here was Medusa. I found myself lost in her tragic story: what would it feel like to fall so hideously from grace; to find terror and disgust where before had been adoration; to be so overwhelmingly unloved (hadn’t she been loved before)? What would happen if this second I turned someone to stone? I thought of Caravaggio painting himself into this face, and I understood. I wouldn’t be able to explain how I understood, or what it was that I understood. Suddenly I felt like the painting was a lifelong friend, the kind that you have silent conversations with.

I came out of this trance as I was swarmed by students scrambling to fill out an assignment sheet. Again and again their eyes would flit from friend’s faces to information placard, not once pausing to look at the painting before them. My face flushed with anger. Why didn’t they want to experience the art as I had, to feel, to understand? I turned, desperate to escape the indifference and ignorance which thickened the air. With a jolt my whole body collided into someone, and my eyes stumbled up to find their face.

It was you.

But your eyes didn’t meet mine; not then, because your eyes were on her. You stood transfixed, as I had been moments before. I mused you had been turned to stone; is that what you were imagining?  What threaded thoughts were weaving this moment together in your mind? I watched as that moment of understanding dawned on your face, and I knew then you were different. It’s cliché but true. You were that black sheep, the one who wasn’t afraid to get lost.

Then the spell was broken and I walked on. We never made eye contact but I felt you turn after me.  I went into the next room, which seemed peaceful away from the crowd. It was the last room, and the exit was back through the previous room. These paintings were of the typical religious scene, and I had just stopped in front of yet another Annunciation when you walked through the narrow doorway. I stole a quick glance in your direction and turned back to face the painting. You were ahead of the crowd; I imagine you liked to observe the art in peace, as I did. I have to say you were the type to be a black sheep: thin and nerdy, with a timid air of humble intelligence. You didn’t look at me as you entered, but turned and systematically started to walk along the wall, occasionally pausing when you found something of interest. I was still in front of the Annunciation, pretending to study the Virgin figure, when you came to it and stopped. We stood in silence for a number of minutes, many more minutes than such a painting warranted, to say the least. I was waiting for you to move, and I suppose you were waiting for me as well, because neither of us even turned a head. The crowd from the other room eventually filtered in and surrounded us. I was jostled to the side by some more placard-happy students when I turned my head and our glances collided. I felt like I was being analyzed as you had before analyzed the Medusa. My heart galloped and I was tempted to tear away my gaze but found I couldn’t. Yours were deep, searching eyes, lonely from years of unobserved observations: Caravaggio eyes.

The crowd drew us apart, and moments later I found myself again in front of the Medusa. There was a tragic beauty in her pain, a desperation to break free and be loved. I saw something of you beneath those twisted features.

The crowd finally came back in, and I stood like a statue as they swarmed around me. Your figure emerged from the mass and you came towards me, eyes cast down to the floor, seemingly lost in thought. You passed within an inch of me, and the earth held its breath. For the briefest of moments I felt your hand brush against my palm, your fingers entwine with mine. And then you were gone.

How strange I should think of you today.