On a sunny day in February of 2017, my partner and I were walking along a busy street in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico, when a colorful window display drew us through the door of a large art gallery.
Its high ceilings and large windows created an abundance of natural light, which made my leisurely stroll past enormous oils, incredible sculptures and healthy, living plants of every shape and size ever more enjoyable. I felt no pressure to buy anything; most gallery pieces had always been beyond my budget, so I had seldom, if ever, considered purchasing a large piece of art. Until I saw HER.
I’ll never forget the moment I stopped before a dreamy canvas featuring the torso of a young woman whose amber eyes focused with great concentration on something to her left—something only she could see. Her dark wavy hair was pulled back to reveal flawless skin and a high forehead balanced perfectly by full, reddish-orange lips. Hers was a youthful, beautiful face. But her hands were what kept me rooted to the spot where I stood beneath her.
Dressed in a collarless, long-sleeved black top, the woman directed both eyes and hands toward whatever lay beyond our view. Her open left hand, turned outward to reveal three small illuminated symbols, was positioned slightly beneath the left side of her chin. The fingers of her right hand, held at eye level to the right of her face, directed beams of light at the object of her gaze. A ball the size of her head would have fit perfectly within the empty space between her hands.
Only later did I notice what other viewers probably saw right away: a shadow image of the woman herself splitting off from her left side.
I didn’t have to contemplate what that meant or what this woman was doing; I recognized her stance and felt immediate rapport. Metaphorically or otherwise, her intent was to manifest. To conjure some effect upon the object of her concentration. I was mesmerized by the image and what it suggested, at least to me.
But that day I knew I couldn’t have her—not yet. So I promised to come back, even as I walked empty-handed out of the gallery. “If you are truly mine,” I told her, “you will be here when I return. Whenever that is.” I felt sad but not disheartened.
Three years later, just before the pandemic shut down both Mexico and the U.S., I returned to the gallery and asked about the painting. Although no longer on display, she was easy to find sitting on the floor with other paintings by the same artist, who just happened to be in the store that day. In spite of the language barrier, he was able to tell me about his work, and I to convey my growing affection for his by then four-year-old piece. But the price was still more than I could afford. For a second time, I promised to return.
Another three years passed before I found myself once again south of the U.S. border. I hadn’t landed in Puerto Vallarta this time but I was in Mexico; perhaps she was still there, too. So I contacted the gallery—had she been sold? Did she belong to someone else now?
A few WhatsApp interactions later, a friendly staff member informed me the painting was on its way back to the gallery from a show in Guadelajara. She was still available. And this time I was ready.
It took two more weeks and dozens of texts before the painting began its journey to Minneapolis. And now, having arrived safely, she lights up the wall of my four-season porch, where I sit every day and admire her face. This painting—this woman—speaks to me. I’ve felt connected to her image for six long years.
Sometimes I wonder—did I manifest the sale? During the years I gazed over my own left shoulder toward Mexico, did my desire to own the painting hold her at the gallery? Had I been able to buy the painting earlier, would I have enjoyed her as much as I do now?
I have far more time now to sit in silence and admire the artist’s vision and skill. To contemplate what exactly he might have been thinking as he painted. To wonder who his model was, and who she has become.
But that’s not what matters. What matters most is the way I relate to his subject, a woman who embodies qualities I value. She’s powerful. Determined. Focused. I also believe she’s not alone—she’s serving someone. Maybe even healing another person. Or an animal.
She represents who I can be if and when I choose. I can’t have her eternal youth, but I can conjure and direct her strengths toward my own dreams and goals. Besides, I’ve been where she is, and she’s heading to where I am now. It all evens out in the end.
One thing I’m sure of: This woman is magic. And every day she reminds me of the ways I can use and direct my own brand of magic. At any age. She does what art is meant to do.
She inspires me.
What are you drawn to that inspires you? I’d love to hear your thoughts.
