National Gallery 12/07/2017

When in London, more often than not my feet lead me to a specific room in the National Gallery. UP the stairs, turn right, through on room and into the next, and then right again to look at the painting in the corner.

A Wheatfield with Cypresses, a painting that brings me inner calm, the warm glow of sunshine that penetrates every part of that painting seeps into me. How much time have I spent in front of it, feeling it? Looking at it does not cover the experience of it. And of course, always, still, listening to 'The Mighty Rio Grande'.

Except this time.

I walked through the doors, to the right, through the room, to the right, and the crowd parted and I wanted the meeting of person and painting to be just like it had been that very first perfect time. But the floor disappeared beneath me and I found myself looking at 'Long Grass with Butterflies'.

I can't really put into words why I felt so sad. It isn't a rational reaction to the loss of a painting, more like the reaction you have at the loss of a dear friend. But it was entirely natural to me - tears in my eyes, that cold feeling of shock, my eyes ran up and down the other paintings, trying to analyse, distract myself from the missing one that mattered.

I went up to the gallery attendant. 

'Excuse me, I was wondering. There used to be a painting, just there, and it's gone. A Wheatfield with Cypresses. Do you know where it is?'

'Ah, that's a favourite of mine. It's on loan to another museum. I could look that up for you if you'd like?'

'Yes - yes please.'

He flipped through a clipboard of paper. 

'Here. Melbourne. On loan until the 9th of July. So it should be on it's way back right now.'

'Oh thank God. I was afraid they'd decided to put it in storage or something.'

'Nah never that one. They'd have to get through me before they could do that.'

The floor materialised again under my feet. I went to another gallery. Breath returned, and with it my eyes to see the paintings before me, beautiful as well, although not quite as beautiful to me as that one.

But come September. Oh, September please come.