0068 The Connoisseur (2)

Is there a god sleeping in this room? even the doorhandle, gently turned, seems to speak a message before the room entered, the first breath taken of the room’s own air and on the table, the grey-green vase seems to be the host; the silent messenger: the furniture somehow eternal in its order; every line and curve within the room speaking of some divine geometry; the shaded sunlight seems to fall on tiptoe, touch in silent praise; the air, to be refined; and the silence – what does the silence say unspoken as if it holds some god-smiled word, some solemn laughter, about what is there and is not there, has made of this room, this ordinary room, a shrine where one can worship without form oneself? the vase too holds itself both open and reserved; its perfect curves the subtle decisions of a history of centuries, of generations of human hands; of things made for oneself, for others, for all else where all else is known; silent the vase; the room full of its sound. Is there a god sleeping in this room? you; moving forward with respectful quiet step to touch this grey-green Chinese vase