In Eugene, OR, on a late summer day, I hesitate my steps so that I can look closely at two large trees, and the scent they throw down settles firmly into the road. I am walking north on High Street, my destination the downtown library. I watch bikers and runners pass, and to my left something seems out of place. My gaze settles upon a black and white mural which contrasts with the vibrant summer colors which liven the town. I step off the road and wander to the painting, its size and mood unsettling. The European feel and the curving, narrow road which is built upon a hill, closed off by tightly fitted buildings, brings to mind Montmartre, Paris. The solitary figure clad in black, ideas and images filling his lonely jaunt, could be a suburban Sartre who wanders dark alleys dreaming of freedom, or a depressed Van Gogh contemplating the deficiencies of his palette as he nears the entrance to his brother's apartment. Beyond the gray linear lines of the wall, clouds recline against a blue sky and I decide to continue my walk.
When I cross into the business district I turn left onto Broadway and pass an alley in which a monumental mural teems with color, texture, and shape. I turn into the alley and see a man sitting in a chair, his tired gaze piercing the wall. I saunter over cracked concrete, allowing my eyes to focus on both small and large things. A memory is reflected, a time when I worked in the Chicago Loop. On my lunch hour I would sometimes sit before the Chagall "Four Seasons" mosaic, eating a sandwich and contemplating the rich detail contained in each polished fragment of glass and stone. After many return visits I pieced together the story of the seasons, and to make sense of what is now before me will require the same patience and concentration.
I turn to the man and start a conversation. His name is Hans, and he tells me he is the artist. The mural is a scene of heroes and villains, a Shakespearean odyssey unfurled upon a forlorn wall. Four youths dressed in black approach, and Hans wanders over to them. I am left alone to ponder the immensity of his creation. Colors and shapes play hide and seek, and I imagine what his hands will create with the remaining white space of his gritty canvas. I notice the clouds again, still reclining against the summer blue. I have a book to return, and the library is only a few blocks away....
