He painted on the large canvasses we now see in the Orangery Museum. A quiet man, who took the time to look at the light, the pale greens, the tender colours of the young plants. His garden is a spot for dreaming, thinking back to a time of peace. And then there is the gateway, the little painted bridge, an enigma, a sign, a parabole perhaps?
Where does it lead? Could it lead to you, wherever you are, surely painting, deep in thoughts, wondering. Yes, I see you now, in a secret part of your garden, where even ghosts tread carefully.
As I sit at the keyboard I hear your footsteps: you’re standing behind me, and I can feel the warmth of your smile. Turning towards you I see you are already wearing your running gear, the knee-length black leggings, the light blue t-shirt – o my. “C’mon jarhead, time to shake your bulk!” The sun is out, a little breeze waves through the long grass, as we warm up on the path that follows the railway line. I am following you, dreaming, my eyes riveted on those lovely oscillating buttocks and legs. Of course, I miss a step, trip and nearly flatten my “bulk” in deep mud. I hear the crystal bells of your laugh, now well ahead of me: catching you up, my love, is no easy challenge, but I try. Now we approach the motorway bridge, which flies over the railway, leaving just enough space for the path to pull underneath to the other side, then there is a gate and a little hill. Running up the hill you clearly show the advantage of lightness: at half my weight there is no way I can compete with you – but you don’t expect me to, you slow down and blow me a kiss: the sunlight plays in your hair, slowly I catch up, and we run now next to each other, over the footbridge, now above the motorway, through the sports fields, following the road back to our house.