A chance meeting

Where is the boundary between a tradition and an obsession? For Mr. Chandler the Sunday morning ramble through the Metropolitan Museum of Art – never the vulgar shorthand ‘The Met’ – was his time of pleasure; a way to lift himself above the plebeian duties of his workweek. As a fancied connoisseur of the arts – again, Arts was simple pretense – each successive Sunday was spent in rote study of different galleries. He always avoided the crush of the special presentations by purchasing private show tickets instead and attended these events alone on Friday evenings.

Being a confirmed bachelor had many advantages, not the least of which was companionship rather than shackles. Not that shackles were all bad he’d been know to pontificate, but not for one such as I. Mr. Chandler simply choose to spend his time, and money, on those activities that offered a tangible reward. For those that could not understand how the viewing of art could be rewarding, he had nothing but scorn. Art, was what separated Homo sapiens from the reptilian brain stem that was only interested in food and mating. Of course he did those things as well, [very well] and if pressed, Mr. Chandler would admit, in a torturous and belabored manner, that all art – in fact – ‘stemmed’ from that primitive and frightening portion of the ancient mind.

“Art? Is that you? Fancy meeting you here. I didn’t take you for a man of good taste and sophistication. Is this your first visit to the Met?”

By Rose D. Kaye, February 6th, 2009


8 thoughts on “A chance meeting

  1. Hope you like my new avatar.

    Been fairly busy with internal stuff and a little bit of writing. The body is very tired and the weather has been too cold.

    I want to thank all of you that read and all of you who choose to comment. It’s rare when I get a chance to read other blogs and comment these days, but I cherish all of you and wish only the best in your lives.



  2. LOVE it, Darling – had me hooked from the first line. Looking for more of the “Death hands me a drink” series.

    Hugs, D 🙂

  3. i know i just posted a comment,, but it didnt show up… all i said was

    “twisted and deliscious!!!”

    i have been running behind on my reading,, no attention span as of late……

  4. If I tell you I caught myself chuckling as I read, will you give me time to explain? You write a perfectly sober story and I could not help but smile as I read, recalling a trip I took one afternoon through an art museum in New York City. The one and only memory I carried with me as I laughingly left the place, was the memory of an empty can that had once held stewed tomatoes hanging at one end of a huge canvass with some blotches of paint scattered across its surface. Oh, yes, there was a equally large canvass, completly bare of anything other than smeared-on white paint. On closer inspection, the viewer could detect, that is, if he had 30/30 vision, a slight difference in shades of white and, yes, the artist had taken time to vary the brush strokes that had to have been applied with a brush such as paper hangers use.
    Enough of that. Loved the ending of your story because it tells of more to come. I already have one in mind. I want to read yours.

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