The gallery’s space engulfs a man in its subduing, uterine calm. His passage is reflected in framed windows offering glimpses inward on past worlds. The oils, so delicately applied by long-dead hands, swirl and shift and compose themselves into vague recollections and ancient theory. The first frame calls…

It is large and dark; Flemish, from the 16th century: "Death and the Maiden". A single, glowing, youthful body emerges from threatening penumbra. The light arises from within her body as in this world there is no light. Her hands reach out toward the man as he drifts into another world. Her nakedness arouses; the skin is soft and supple, the legs and hips shapely. The palms of her hands are white and smooth and all aspects of her reflect her youthful innocence. Drifting closer, she does not acknowledge him for her head is turned toward the looming shadow. Her lips, so red and sweet, are parted to release a last sigh (but this expresses no passion) and her eyes begin to loll back in their sockets. Her hair, golden and long, falls unheeded about her shoulders. Here there is no hope for hidden in the gathering and endless night is the shrouded figure of Death; his skeletal leer is directly fixed on the face of the girl and a single, bony hand seems to caress the curve of her hip. He will have her; he will gently draw her back into his shadow-land and her radiant light will dissipate.

The man turns his gaze away from this still-motion abduction and passes to the second frame.

It is small, but no less dark; Northern Italian, also from the 16th century: "Memento Mori". A still life with a closed book, extinguished candle and a skull abandoned on a study desk. In this world all is still and quiet. A single overturned chessman shows that the end-game has been played and lost. In the musty stillness, the candle’s ember dies and a wisp of tallow-soaked smoke drifts away. The skull gazes over all of this impassively; the empty eye sockets reveal nothing of expression or emotion. It rests solidly on the little desk and speaks its only truth, ‘Come sono io, sarai anche tu’.*

The man turns away and feels the warmth of a gentle autumn breeze on his cheek: the third frame.

It fills his gaze; French Impressionist: "Autumn Lagoon". Here all is sun dappled and waves of colour, driven by the breeze, float softly across the trees. The man is dazzled as the colours ripple before him from deep, grey and green shadows to the glowing reds and yellows of the gently cavorting, drifting and falling leaves. Everywhere there is movement and, even in this season of death, there is vibrancy.

The lagoon is lit brightly and blue. The gentle waves sparkle, reflecting, now, the steel blue sky and, now, the colours of the trees surrounding. The man dips his hand in the water, it is cold and hard and refreshing.

On the lagoon, there drifts a single boater and in it, a man. The paddles are drawn up and stowed. The man in the boat, has a book, but he does not read it. The book is closed and the boater turns to his viewer, offering its sealed wisdom.

The gallery’s framed mirrors reflect the soul of a solitary man. He lingers in front of each one; seeing something of himself. Then he passes on; his shoes click lightly on the polished wood floor and his long black coat flutters softly about him like a shroud. Eventually, he drifts into another room.

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*As i am, so you shall be.