"This one kind of looks wonky, doesn't it?" The stranger directed his question towards no one in particular, staring at the piece of art in front of him.
I looked around and found one or two people placed far in the corner of the small art exhibit, clearly not the receiver of his question. I realized it must be me.
I studied the painting he was referring to. It depicted a girl falling. The air around her was streaked with delicate acrylic streams of white wind.
"You think so?" I asked. "I think it's quite sad."
He looked at me inquisitively. "I guess so. I just think it doesn't fit in with the rest of the exhibit."
I scanned the room. He was right. All the other paintings were portraits painted in different styles of different people. "You think that's an intentional decision by the artist?" I asked.
"Oh definitely," He nodded. "It gets people to stop and talk about it. But not even specifically just this painting, but it's relation to everything else in this room too. That's smart of the artist."
"I can't even remember the last time I was stopped in my track like this for art, actually." I ruminated.
"I saw this photo series once that struck me," He said. "It was really simple too. I think most profound things are."
"We like to make things complicated, don't we." I chuckled. "The people considered the most intelligent are those who make complicated things simple."
He smirked and let out a small laugh.
"What was the photo series?" I asked.
"A children's toy. I think it was a cow or something. There was a before picture where it was nice and new and an after picture where it was tattered and clearly heavily played with." He recalled.
"Sounds like it was heavily loved rather than heavily played with?" I suggested.
"Oh yes," His face lit up. "The series was called 'Too Much Love' I think."
"What did you see?" I asked.
"It's interesting actually, I was with my dad at the time. I just saw it for what it was, a toy that's been used a lot. And he saw it for something deeper. He just said, love will do that to you." He laughed. "And I told him, yeah that's the whole point of the series, dad. But he explained it better after that, I hope I don't butcher this. But he said love will wear you down and turn you into something else, still yourself but now fundamentally changed. I wasn't buying it, personally. I told him the fundamental change didn't look great at all, who would want to be worn down and broken-looking like that. He told me that he would rather be aware of his imperfections through love than remain perfect and unloved."
"Wow," I let out a sharp breath. "I would have to agree with your dad."
"I do agree with him. It's just harder for me to digest it, I think." He looked to the next piece of art.
"How so?" I was curious.
"Him talking about love like that is..." He shook his head, "it's complicated."
I grazed the next painting with an unfocused gaze, waiting for his explanation. A portrait of a man posing with a strong complexion.
"It's like that with parents, I think. I probably don't have a unique experience. They cut up fruit for you and bring it to your room without asking, but you can't remember the last time they told you they're proud of you. They call you every day asking if you're well and you've eaten, but you'll never be good enough for them. You go through everything and nothing together. They know you, but they don't know you."
I glanced at him and nodded. The portrait came into more focus, the man's eyes softened, but the intensity persisted.
"I guess he experienced a love so fulfilling that he wouldn't mind being worn down with it, but he somehow forgot to give that to me." He grimaced, looking at the portrait of the man.
"I don't think he forgot," I explained. "I think he's trying to show you in his own way what he might have learned. It might have gotten a little mistranslated along the way."
He shrugged, nonchalantly moving to the next portrait.
"I really do think that." I continued, trying to convince him. "The cut fruit, the daily calls, and even his little line about always picking love. It's all just his indirect way of telling you that he's made mistakes and he doesn't know how to tell you to your face that he loves you because he doesn't want to mess things up again like he might've done in the past."
"He hasn't let love fundamentally change him." He mused silently.
"But he wants that for you. And maybe even a small part of him wants that for himself, coming from you. He just might not know where to start." I encouraged. "Don't go waiting around for change to happen to you. You're the change you've been looking for."
He finally broke his stare with the portrait and looked down at his shoes. He then turned to me and excused himself, thanking me for the conversation as he left the room.
I'd like to think he left the room and the museum itself, picked up the phone, called his dad and told him he doesn't have to be afraid to be vulnerable and that he loves him. But I can't be sure. Love is a vulnerable set of decisions where you intentionally decide to give someone your whole self and accept them for their entirety as well, good with the bad. Maybe he left to find the photo series again, practicing telling the battered toy cow all the things he wishes he could tell his father. And maybe life is precisely just that; trusting love in all the ways it alters yourself and those around you and finding a way to close your eyes and take the leap.