I’ve always liked art but am not a connoisseur or someone who can talk about the depth in a painting, the feeling or half the things those cravat-wearing types do, standing around in an art gallery.

I just know if something appeals to it. Sometimes it does piecemeal, and other times holistically but I know that I really like art and can spend hours and days in a museum or a gallery just exploring.

Last year I was in Madrid and came across a small gallery nestled between a bunch of eateries and souvenir shops. I was on my way to Mercado San Miguel and quite looking forward to finally exploring the city after the Big Incident.

The gallery was empty or so I thought but it had such vibrant, vivid paintings all around it that I had to take a look and stay to see if anyone was there to tell me more.

Sadly, I lost the business card of the gallery owner- a Swedish lady who relocated to Madrid after meeting and falling in love with her Spanish husband, the original painter and founder of the gallery.

He had since passed on and the lady and her daughter, also an artist, ran the gallery and had exhibitions of their painting from time to time.

The place was charming and full of memories. Like the last palette of color the gentleman had taken out to work with before he passed. The colors were stiff and dry but were given a prominent place in the gallery where its importance would be felt by everyone who entered.

I didn’t have enough money to buy one of those paintings and have it shipped back to India but the story stayed with me. Art, even the ones which seem weird and outlandish to us, captures moments in time, feelings, expression and freezes them like a photograph.

I would love to go back there, grab a bag of churro and just take it all in. A new memory at a time.