In her bid to escape the mundane, she had reached a beautiful quaint town on an unnoticed Greek island. As she was sauntering around the charming little town, soaking in the beauty and peace of it all, she stopped outside a cafe noticing a pair of sad eyes of a woman staring at her from a painting; she could not help but stare back. “Do you like the painting?” a husky voice asked her breaking her concentration. She turned around to put a face to the voice and found a man in rugged light blue jeans and casual white shirt standing next to the pots of brushes and an easel. She responded with a question as she realised he was the artist who created this piece of stirring emotion, “Why are her eyes so sad?” The painter studied the inquisitor’s dewy eyes for a brief moment and then looked at his painting. After a few seconds of contemplation he demanded, “Why don’t you tell me?”
That’s the thing about art and artists, she thought. A piece of art only assures you that you are not alone in your wretchedness. It is always about your interpretation, your pain. It is always about why you feel a connection with it. Be it music, words, paintings, photographs or any other art form. The fact that she could sense the pain of the woman in the painting was only a reflection of her own misery.
She gave a knowing smile to the cute brown-eyed painter, decided not to answer this time and turned to leave.
After a few steps she paused, looked back, winked at him and said, “Efharisto.” This time he gave her a reassuring smile.