Butterfly's Dream - Overture 1 (fragment)

The mild, pleasant rays of the autumnal Sun are sieving in through the circular window buried in the blue-painted ceiling, like drops from a delicate celestial waterfall. They fill the room with a golden, relaxing light. Prints of buildings, landscapes, or portraits, all placed neatly in thin frames, cover the gray-plastered walls everywhere I look. Sounds of steps and conversations in low tones resonate and combine in frequencies that are overlapping around my stiff, standing body. People are coming in or moving out towards the other rooms of the art gallery. An incessant, continuous flow of costumes, dresses, and voices.

Why am I here? What am I doing in this place? Where is this place located, anyway? I feel as if I have been suddenly planted, like a sapling, at the edge of this hall, as if I have just materialized on this spot out of the void.

Seconds later, fuzzy memories come back, slapping my brain with a vigorous gentleness. I remember the announcement about the exhibition. I have read it in a newspaper, the other day. It was about a rare and extensive Escher collection, almost all his masterpieces in one place, open to the public from my city for a full month. And here I am, in front of this lithograph from 1956, named “Print Gallery”.

The flow of people continues unabated left and right, forward and backward. It’s a never-ending swirl of footsteps and voices. Visitors pause for a few moments in front of a framed image, then move, almost in haste, to the next. I keep looking at “Print Gallery”, hypnotized by its unusual composition. My eyes remain glued to the man displayed there. The man is gazing at the works filling a long passageway. Through an insane twist of space, the framed image in front of him expands, enclosing the room, the building, the whole Universe. Unperturbed, he stares at the print of which he has become a part himself. And now I am that man, and I’m looking at the print from the print, and I have become part of this print myself.

“What do you think of this work? It looks intriguing, doesn’t it?” strikes a voice at my right.

Pulled out of my dazzling vision, I turn my head slowly and find standing next to me a slender, middle-aged man of medium height, dressed in a dark-orange robe. His head is neatly shaved, and he’s got a peaceful smile on his face. A Buddhist monk. Well, why wouldn’t a monk be interested in art, too? However, my instinct tells me he isn’t here by chance. His question sounds more than casual, it must have a deeper meaning. So, I do my best to articulate my thoughts as clearly as I can:

“I have to agree, I’m fascinated by it,” I murmur in a low tone. “The image seems to blur the distinction between what’s inside and what’s outside someone’s body.”

His gray eyes look at me intensely, as if they could drill through my skull and read my thoughts. Yet, there is a peace and a friendliness in them that could only come from someone who has reached a high spiritual level. The monk is someone who apparently wants to help me with something. But with what? And why?

(to be continued...)

Books by Marian C. Ghilea:
BUTTERFLY'S DREAM: https://bit.ly/2PM63uU
TIDES OF AMBER: https://bit.ly/2HfcHVB

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Image: "Print Gallery" by Maurits Cornelis Escher (1958)