She comes into the art gallery every day, almost like clockwork. Moving slowly from one painting to another, she studies each one with utmost interest and intrigue. No one knew who she was, she wasn’t known amongst the art circuit. Yet she seemed to fit in this room full of art work. Sometimes she’d look at a painting for too long without blinking. As if she sees something beneath the canvas, behind all the paint, something that the artist started out with, something on the blank canvas that inspired him.

She didn’t speak the language of art, she didn’t know what post-impressionism meant, she didn’t know Picasso, Van Gogh, Henri Rousseau the most widely known artists. She sometimes couldn’t even tell an oil painting from a water one. But she looked like she knew more than the esteemed art connoisseurs. And she did.

She didn’t speak about the type of strokes or the intellectual meaning. She spoke about the emotion it invoked and the artists’ feelings. Most of the times she is right and sometimes she challenges the most accepted theory behind a painting and with a plain smile she’d shrug her shoulders and say, ‘You must know better. But I feel this. And it feels right.’

When asked who, she was and what she did, she’d flash her humble smile and say, ‘I’m just a girl who sees things. I may see it differently from the rest and that’s what you find odd. But I like seeing art, it moves me. That’s what I do.’ Most thought she was just crazy, some house wife with more time on her hands than she knew what to do with. Some thought she was trying to woo the rich men that came into the place. Some thought she was an art lover, the kinds that are just not very informed about it. But almost no one thought what she actually said she was.

At the end of the day, she’d walk back to her little two-bedroom apartment that was almost falling apart. She’d flower the one flower pot on her window sill, looking at the flower and gently touching its radiant glow. Her house with barren white walls would look at her, aching to be painted to have a swivel of her imagination swiped across it. But no one knew her colour blind eyes were painting masterpieces in everything she saw. Her defective eyes couldn’t stop her mind from filling colours across landscapes, people, paintings and blank walls. She saw everything… she saw more than what we see. She didn’t just see colours, she felt them. And she didn’t need eyes to do that. She was art, in herself.


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