He paused for a few moments then bent over to read the label.  Taking a few steps back he leveled his head and stared at the painting.

My painting.

He doesn’t know I’m watching him as he looks.  We’re both scrutinizing, trying to make sense of the other.  It’s a slow dance he does.  Forward, pause, sidestep, hip thrust as he seeks a closer distance.  His nose is almost on the wax now.  He’s reading me.

I don’t approach.  There is an arc of privacy that I don’t want to cross.  I’m honored that in these days of soundbites, selfies and seconds, my work has captured his attention.

I love how he has his umbrella courteously tucked behind his back with folded arms.  He poses no threat to the work and presents a friendly greeting.  He makes his way along the wall painting by painting.  Slow and steady.  From afar he appears to be bowing in front of each.

In a few months when I’m in the thick of a new series and wondering what the heck I’m doing; I’ll remember this afternoon and how good it feels to stop in our tracks, show up and give of ourselves.