As one man would say, in any other talk of life, would say in the most enlighten spoken words. Of how anything is an art, in anyone’s eyes, just takes one of the few, to look beyond what the eyes see, and relies on what the rest of the body can give in an answer.
As to this slim, aging, posh man wearing his best suit for something of this kind of day, with the wearing tape, once black numbers faded into a light gray of yellow-whitish tape. A well used pencil toyed between his thin and capped lips, in the most deepest thought. Tips of the oval-framed glasses slide down his nose also in that forever bottomless thought bubble, as his eyes remain fixed on his art.
His art of science, a rare bird skeleton, not common in the lands of his people, rested on a pedestal in full glory.
The bones of the bird, handled with care, pasted together with the calculated hands of the man, that he earned in his years.
Just as anything else in his calm but messy study, his overwhelming but wonderful work, and his short coming but meaningful years.
Yes, the man’s eyes would still glance back at the bony animal to his papers not far from the bird, a blue feathered eye, white being with black tip winged and cap, pale gel stork; it was before dying unknowingly and leaving its bones behind, found in the lands far east from the man’s land, but again only seeing the messy smudges and his foresighted measures and notes, tabled under his bags, again noting, that once this was done, he was going to dash off once more.
As his work is never done and over so soon, in anyone’s life. His or even yours.
Even again, this man would recheck all his work from a clipboard, held under his arm, close to his heart. In a small gesture such as that, does that not come close, to what matters to this man? If asking is needed to know, for lack of understanding, than a answer you’ll never get.
Science is Measurement by Henry Stacy Marks
Painted in the year; unknown
Location when painted; unknown