She always wanted a Robert Ryman

As someone who admires those who can't pass a flower they don't want to pick--but almost never picks one herself--who can blame her for wanting a painting whose subject matter is clearly a matter of pure light?

She was a Swedish woman who had everything--and by everything is meant great wealth, a house in the country, and a gallery in Stockholm devoted to the masters of contemporary art--and who, to her dying day, did or did not got her last wish: a painting by Robert Ryman.

They way she talked about what she wanted was a work of art, speaking of Ryman's white paintings the way some people speak about food, as if they are eating the most marvelous things while they are speaking.

It's only a painting, we thought as we listened to her speak raptuously of Ryman's work.

Though none of us were suprised when we learned that she'd left the world--not unexpectedly for she was a chain-smoker and had a diet high in cholesterol and white wine--neither did any of us know for sure if she'd ever procured a Ryman painting before her departure.

And now we'll never know, having lost touch, but remembering her great love of Ryman's work and the light it cast.

As a legacy, it's a fine one to leave: to have perished, having the white painting or still in hopes of having it.