It was gift and blessing to bear witness—the pleasure-view of her in immersion-interest, her losing of self, absorbed in an else that spoke and touched, resonant, to a something of her.
He watched her then, legs and feet folded beneath her body in upright rest, soles of her bare feet upturned and the flash of painted toes as she leant forward in her rest and examen of that to which she gave her focus. He watched her move. He watched her shift, youthful and innocent excitement as she shifted pages of book and under-depths of colored, textured, and fabric layers that created accent-arrangement in enrichment and embolden of words and images to page.
In shared art of another, in small way of intention—inspired—she made means and method of her own.
He smiled, pleased and mirthful, to see her in her own: an interests grown into become of fascination.
He watched her move, shift page upon background of fur, blankets, rug and hardwood floor; each way a presentation and changed expression of words and essence of the page. He was one of the rare who would understand. He often did the same with passages from pages when he read: wanting to share them on—a something that inspired, spoke and moved in him, and he hoped might affect and touch another same.
Unknowing the enjoyment, from vantage, many would think it silly. The focus, sudden giddiness of getting right: colors, frame, lines, dimensions and depths that enriched focus of presented front but, too, encouraged eyes and attentions’ stay, further seeing into details and intentionality of the depth captured in display.
Witnessed image, product of the thought, he saw the beauty. He sensed the spirit she sought to share and in conspire and arrange—shift and move and try again of background, book, and self—camera-caught.
It was artful and beautiful, and he told her so.
It was a gift to be inspired: wherever and however so.
It didn’t need explained, understood, or rationalized in moment when it is.
Embrace it. Make something of it.
For in the after, in witness and receive of share from the make—one sees and understands. It requires no after-words.
Her art—its aesthetic, arrangement, order of depths and hues and fabric-feels one felt even in only sight—showed the spirit she wished to share. To him, the pictures came alive; each in a romance ambiance seen and sensed and known in exudence from the scene.
He told her they were beautiful. She smiled and carried on, immersed and enchanted by a something that inspired.
He watched her keeping on, capture of picture, page, and scenes; the way she moved; folded legs, body high, forward lean; upturn of the soles of her feet in balance on hands and knees in examen of arranged scene; white of her ankles from blue jeans’ cuffs, roll of white shirt sleeves, unbuttoned, midway up her arms, arrange of her hair—loose and composed—in clip upon head; length and shape, curves and lines of her body; focus in eyes, focus of mind, attention of the spirit.
All of her, all of moment, was beauty of an essence.
He would write it one day. This he knew.
It was gift to be inspired.