A Smile. Special. Puzzling. Worshiped for centuries. Mona Lisa’s. Hands. Still. Crossed, white. Mona Lisa’s. Eyes. Soft. Specif- ic, the eyes looking directly at you. Mona Lisa’s. And as if she has been around us since time immemorial, as an inex- haustible object of inspiration and artistic re-birth, birth in look at her that inspires us with its beauty.
And the longer you look, you start to recognize hands. Hands that greet you, hands that caress you. Hands with which you shake hands. Hands that pass you the ball. And the eyes, they become green, then blue, then black again. Those that you see every morning when you wake up. Some of those that wink at you. A smile that was meant only for you. The smile not at all fake, real friendly, primordially human. Smile turns into laughter and as if you are hearing it from the last row of a movie theatre. It grows into children’s laughter. And as if Mona Lisa is all around you, in every human being. Everyone has their own personal object of worship. And not somewhere far away, but here, around them, within reach. Everyone has their own personal inspiration. Everyone has their own personal Gioconda.