...So it stopped raining. The sun began to shine. Plans changed. I blow-dried my hair. I wore a CASIMIRA with tiny Colombian emeralds.
The exhibit was truly disturbing on numerous levels. The smaller, intimate watercolors and pencil drawings on paper impacted me more than the larger colorful paintings which reminded me of cartoons at first glance.
I recognized his tall wife from the Spanish HOLA magazines certain Latinas enjoy reading at salons and on airplanes ( I like to quickly view the photos, but have never purchased a copy). She seemed elegant yet not without a certain air of melancholy. Dressed all in black, as if mourning a youth that has begun to escape her. I could not help but notice a little stain on the right sleeve of her suit. I admired the bold sculptural necklace she wore. She said something about speaking French better than Spanish and about being married to the most famous man in the world. I asked if I might have a photo with her. She was gracious and kind. My camera was moody and out of focus.
He seemed to be a perfect gentleman. White hair and beard with sparkling little eyes of a man who has lived and seen a lot. Impeccably dressed in a dark blue-gray suit with stripes. He smiled and glanced into my eyes with a hint of mischief. An excellent memory - he remembered my grandfather who purchased his first painting in the United States. He signed my postcard. I may have given him a kiss on the cheek...I can't remember. Did I kiss Botero? Did Botero kiss me?
Will he ever paint me? Actually, I am not sure I would like to be portrayed as a cartoon figure...a chubby one at that...and I doubt he would consider changing the style which has made his art instantly recognizable.
So, does rain bring poetry and does sunlight dry it all away? Read yesterday's entry for a possible answer today...
