You look closely at one of his paintings,

Probably closer than you have ever looked before,

And you see what looks like the silhouette of a man in a crimson heart

distinguished from the background by the direction of a few brush strokes

Was that always there?

What could it mean?

You go to sleep that night, and you wonder if this little man is the key to understanding him.

You look for symbols and codes, for cyphers and messages that nobody has ever noticed.

At some point, you realize this will not suffice.

You read interviews about his artistic philosophy from decades before you were born,

Rifle though the pockets of his old clothes,

Sit in the same spot that he used to and try to imagine the things he saw

and still, it’s not enough.

You let him into your dreams. 

Old conversations, half-remembered, are replayed and recontextualized

Did he ever talk to you about his art? 

Did you ever ask?

You start spiraling.

He left you an antique gun, so you take it apart,

study the serial numbers.

You tear through photo albums and study dates,

trying, desperately, to make connections.

With nowhere else to turn, you start talking to the people who knew him.

You find out that he was a sailor and a sexist,

 a community leader and proud cop,

 a disappointment to his parents.

You realize that he took your mom out fishing and shooting, the same way he used to do with you.

You learn that despite his commitment to Zen Buddhism, he spoke and acted as if he was afraid to die.

And you look back at the painting,

and realize: you are no closer to finding the man hidden behind the brushstrokes. 

What do you make of art in the absence of the artist?