Can you fall in love with someone by just observing their artwork? Lance didn’t know. He did know that he believed in love at first sight, but never before had he felt like the wind was knocked out of him by a piece of work.

            There he stood, in a remote gallery in Santa Fe, New Mexico, transfixed by this one painting. It was by a local artist—Shayna McAdams. Lance didn’t pretend to be an expert on art—far from it. He was merely someone who enjoyed looking at an interesting piece and trying to figure out what the artist was trying to say. What inspired them to create? What circumstances surrounded each piece? What was the main point of the work? Lance assumed he was far from right most of the time, but that didn’t deter him.

            Lance moved two steps to the right, seeing if the change in his position would help him understand the painting more. He didn’t see anything that hadn’t been apparent in the first 10 minutes he had been looking at the picture.

He smiled goofily and held his hands upside down in front of his eyes, in a type of upside down binoculars, laughing at himself. He was glad no one had recognized him in the gallery, or if they did, they didn’t bother him. Lance never ventured into some places he would love to spend days in, like the Met. He didn’t want to bother others with the fuss he would certainly cause, and he didn’t feel like worrying about security, which would undoubtedly find it necessary to accompany him.

Galleries and looking at artwork was his escape from his life. He loved his job and his life, but sometimes, he was glad to be just another observer, as he was when he looked at art. Everyone who looked at the same piece was on a level playing field—they were all equal, trying for the same goal. When life was crazy, he always made it a point to come to see art. It calmed him and helped him focus, something few could do in his life.

Lance folded one arm under the other and rested them against his chest. The unusual colors seemed sporadic at first, with no rhyme or reason to them. The colors ran together and intertwined and crisscrossed and ended suddenly. In the middle of the painting was a dark area, almost circular. More like an ecliptic shape. Lance assumed it was a navy blue shape, but then looked again. He could distinctly pick out each other the other colors used elsewhere in the painting in this one shade and shape. An idea hit Lance with full force.

He had never seen a picture describe his life as well as this one did.

“Hello there.” Someone had approached Lance from behind as he was having his epiphany.

Worried it was a fan, Lance turned around slowly. “Hi there. Can I help you?”

The girl pushed her black shoulder length hair over her shoulders. Her smile reached her green eyes. “I saw you looking at this painting for a while…and I was just wondering what you thought about this painting. My friends and I have looked at it on several occasions, but we can never really come to a clear consensus about what we think it means.”

Lance smiled. “Paintings and pictures mean different things to everyone.” Just like music.

“I know. But if you don’t mind, I’m interested to hear what you think about it.”

He paused. “Can I have a minute? I’m still figuring out my thoughts on this.”

She took a step back. “Take your time.” She pointed to a bench about 5 yards away. “Let me know when you’re ready to talk.”

Lance nodded and returned his thoughts to the painting.

All of the different things and people were swimming around Lance—sometimes he felt like swarming was the better word. His family, friends, clients, business associates, fans, employees…they all wanted his time. His business, his music group, acting career, cars, houses, charities…they all required a commitment and care. All of these things swirling around created Lance’s world. He felt fragmented and separated from reality most of the time. He watched himself perform and meet fans and appear in movies and create his managing business, an out of body experience.

There were many times Lance worried he was spreading himself too thin, but then he’d see a happy fan, or talk to his Momma, or do charity work, and he knew that all of the stress and commitment was worth it. He thrived off of being busy and every component of his life, every thing and person that was pulling him made his life complete. His life would not be as vibrant and fulfilling if it was missing even one thing. Just as the painting would not be as whole or meaningful if one color was missing. That dark-blue elliptic would not calm him when his eyes were drawn back to it. It would not feel like eyes bearing into his being, trying to read his soul.

Once he was finally convinced that he could explain his thoughts well enough, Lance motioned the young woman back over. He took a deep breath and began talking. “For me, this painting is life. It’s hectic and crazy with so many different things and people demanding time and commitment from you, but they all mix together and somehow make your life into something. Even if one tiny thing was different about our lives…it would change drastically.”

“That’s insightful.” The mystery woman stated.

Lance shrugged. “I guess. That dark blue elliptic just…gets me.”

“Really?” She asked, intrigued. “Most people seem to be fascinated by her choice of colors.”

“I have to admit, at first, that’s what confused me. There’s no color scheme.”

“Maybe that’s the scheme…there isn’t one.”

Lance nodded. “That could be it.” He sighed. “I don’t really know though. I’m not an artist.”

“Really? You seem like the tortured soul type.”

He chuckled. “No…I’m a musician, but visual art has always fascinated. How someone can completely leave their emotions and thoughts in inanimate objects, for other people to interpret and appreciate.”

“Spoken like a lyricist.” She paused, as if preparing her next question. “You said the dark blue elliptic captured your attention. Why?”

Lance thought for a moment. Why did it capture his attention? “It…I felt myself getting frazzled by looking at everything else in the painting—the colors and lines and everything. I didn’t even actively see it…it just kind of fell into my line sight, and I saw it…and I felt this…” He struggled to find the right word.

“Peace?” She suggested.

Lance nodded. “I felt like I was in my life while I was looking at everything else—crazy and stressed and tired and burnt-out…but when I saw that elliptical, I felt refreshed and centered and focus. Only my family and friends, basically, can do that for me.”

She nodded in understanding. “Are you sure you’re not an artist. You sure got a lot out of that painting. How long have you been looking at it?”

Lance checked his watch. “About half an hour.”

She nodded again. “Do you like it?”

He chuckled. “Of course I do! My life would be a lot less hectic if I could see that elliptical everywhere.” He paused, and continued on as an after thought. “I’d really like to meet this artist. I’m in complete awe. It was like she knows who I am without ever meeting me, or knowing I’d see her painting. I know this sounds cheesy, but I’m standing here before this painting and for once in my life, I don’t feel judged or nervous or worried or unhappy. I feel contentment and acceptance.”

“Do you think the painting can do that for everyone? Or it’s kind of like, ‘you see what you want to see’ thing?”

Lance thought for a moment. “I think it’s both. I feel like the artist isn’t judging and really understands someone like me. It’s like she read my soul, unintentionally. I also feel like I needed to see this picture. To focus me.”

The mystery woman nodded. “You feel really strongly about this?”

Lance nodded. “I think if I met the artist I’d have this instantaneous connection with her…one that reminds me of…”

“love.” The mystery woman finished his sentence.

“Yeah. How did you know?”

“I think art can speak. I agree that it could be the connection between two people. That it can show what someone is thinking when they create and observe it.” She paused, thinking carefully about her next words. “The artist is here tonight. Do you want to meet her? I can introduce you.”

Lance’s eyes widened. Of course he wanted to meet her! But how on earth would he explain how he was feeling? Would he just come out and say that he had never felt so open and free and not judged as he did standing before this massive painting? Could he say that he thought they had a connection because she seemed to understand him so well? Before Lance could answer, this mystery woman was walking away.

“Wait!” She didn’t turn around. “Damnit.” Lance whispered, thinking there went his only chance to meet the artist.

He continued to observe the painting for a few more moments before sitting on the bench. He didn’t know if he was up for looking at anymore pieces of art that day. That one piece had drawn him immediately as soon as he walked through the front door. It had occupied all of the time he spent at the gallery. And it was tiring, having your soul read by another person and painted onto a canvass, especially when you weren’t expecting to see it there, hanging before you.

“Excuse me?” Lance looked up quickly, and there was the mystery woman.

“You’re back!” He laughed. “I thought you ditched me or something, and then I wouldn’t get to meet the artist…”

The mystery woman stuck out her hand. “Hello, I’m Shayna McAdams.”

Lance’s draw dropped. “You’re—she’s…you…”

Shayna laughed quietly. “I’m sorry for doing that to you…but I really wanted your honest opinion about my piece, and I didn’t think I’d get it if I told you who I was.”

Lance looked down at his feet, embarrassed. Shayna was worried he was mad until he looked up. “So how far off was I?”

She smiled. “You were dead on. No one I’ve talked to has quite understood this like you did.”

“Really?” Lance was shocked. When Shayna nodded, he asked, “what’s pulling you in so many different directions.”

Shayna pushed more of her silky dark hair behind her shoulder. “I’m a teacher, 8th grade. In Chicago, that’s the prime age for gang activity. Add that to being a white young woman working in an inner city school…”

Lance could only imagine. “Wow, that’s incredible. What are you doing in Santa Fe now?”

“I still teach. But now I have the time and energy to paint on the side.”

He nodded. “I don’t mean to be forward, but would you like to get some coffee or something?”

Shayna giggled. “Mr. Bass, I don’t believe you could be forward at all right now, considering I think I fell in love with you just now.”

Lance stopped breathing. Was she feeling everything he was? Penetration, understanding, acceptance, love, soul-bearing, confusion, chaos, focus, excitement, and fear? “What?” He asked hesitantly.

“Lance,” Shayna took his hand. “I always knew I’d have a special connection with whoever understood this painting completely. Like you said, it’s life. It’s not just life, it’s my life. And your life. Our lives. They’re the same picture.”

He smiled and started walking towards the door with her hand still in his. Nothing had ever felt so right as the feel of her hand in his did. Maybe you could fall in love someone because of their artwork. Lance started to believe you could, because he was pretty sure he just did.