Picasso's Palm

All the usual works of art were neatly arranged
along the pristine walls, just as they had been the
month before and the months before that. On the
third Sunday of each month, the museum was
Graham's favorite destination point. The only area
of the museum he was really interested in was
where the permanent collection was housed. He
felt safe there, with his imagination stretching only
within the confines of what had become familiar and
digested. He had made a point of studying each
and every piece in the collection, including artists
names, dates of creation, historical significance,
etc., etc. For Graham was a person who became
fatigued under the stress of too much creative
stimulation. So whenever a new work of art arrived
and joined ranks with the permanent crowd, Graham
slowly and timidly took on the challenge of
acquainting himself with it. It always took some
getting used to, but in time, it too became part of his
familiar vocabulary.

Graham's particular brand of eccentricity came about
many years before while he was still rather young.
He had graduated a prestigious art academy, top
in his class, and was told by all his professors that
he had tremendous talent. The world was his oyster,
or so he thought. Then something happened to him
rather ordinary. He fell in love for the first time.

He met her in the art department. They were both in
their final graduating year. She was not an art student,
but merely taking an art class in order to escape the
confines of the academia she was burdened with as
a law student. She wasn't exactly pretty, but she did
have a way of doling out magnanimous smiles and
corny compliments, which he fell for hook, line and
sinker. In other words, she captivated his naive heart.
She must have made one hell of a good lawyer in the
years to come. Unfortunately he did not have the
opportunity to find out her fate. After graduating, she
flew straight back to her high school sweetheart, and
they were soon to marry. Poor Graham was left out in
the cold. And not only that, it was as if he had fallen
under her curse, as if she re-wired his consciousness
so that he could no longer finish any of his paintings.
This was painful for the sad young man, and so he
decided to retreat into the world of business, working
9 to 5, and only having contact with his adopted
artworks on the third Sunday of each month. And in
doing so, in these small doses, he was hardly
reminded of the loss of the only love he had ever
known.

It was on a bright and what seemed to be, quite
ordinary Sunday, that Graham slipped into the museum
doors, and out of the glaring light of the summer sun.
It took him a few moments for his eyes to adjust. But it
didn't take long for him to notice that a small sliver of
wall which had been previously empty, was now quite
occupied. At first he had his normal reaction of nose
twitching irritation. This soon turned to the usual
fragment of curiosity. Then he had to question himself
as to whether he would approach the thing or wait to
do so on another future visit. He decided to take on the
challenge and walk up to it. First he made sure that no
one was observing him, for he did not want to seem
anxious or to care too much. After finding himself to
be quite alone, he approached it slowly, cautiously,
and then found himself right before it.

He actually found the newcomer to be quite intriguing.
And then he realized as he read the description
accompanying the piece; it was not another work of art
after all. It was in fact a casting of Picasso's right hand.
His eyes fell into the center of Picasso's palm and
followed the course of its lines, as if he were now a
fortune teller. There was something familiar in those
lines. He then looked away in wonderment, before
returning his eyes to the palm. Looking down, he
gingerly opened his right hand. It was just as he had
thought. His palm looked exactly like Picassos. He
cross referenced it line for line, looking up then looking
back down again. There was no mistake about it. He
had Picasso's palm. Then, it was as if a bolt of lightening
had struck a cord in him. He felt a new found energy.
In fact, he just felt renewed, even reborn, you might say.
He wondered if his fifty year old hand might be forgiving
of lost years, and sail with him in his imagination to distant
and forgotten shores.

He opened his hand one more time and held his palm
out next to the one on the wall. "Yes," he thought to
himself with certainty. "His palm would not fail him."
Then, without further ado, he rushed home as fast as
he could, to try it out for a test drive.