They are mystic glances, subdued by glass, surrounded by enamel and pearls, garnets and gold, colors from the sky, stones from the earth. They stare boldly from beyond their frames, from beyond the centuries – clutching jealously at their meaning, keeping it hidden beneath the guarded depths of a lover's jewel.
There was a time when they searched crowded, powdered rooms: tiny ships with precious cargo, pinned safely within the gentle harbor of a silken bodice, by the sharp island of a velvet lapel. They held the image of a loved one's eye; the eye that animated a living face the way meaning inspires a word. Free from the danger of recognition they were unblinking testaments that their owner yearned, but had to keep that longing a secret.
When the sun questioned such audacity, the eye would appear to blink under its hot scolding. When it rained, the eye seemed to despair and cried for its wearer's loneliness. When the clouds pulled a shadow across the flippant sky, the darkness made the eye overcast and enigmatic.
The eye can be a narcisisstic pool – a liquid mirror in which a person can see his own heart and desire. The DNA of human emotion swims in its oceanic depths. It reaches into the luminous sky and sees its image in the stars piercing the galaxies like an embroidery spanning infinite acres. But it can also be a communique of shade and color; a confession two hundred years old whose ghostly reflection still reclines in the embrace of loving gems, continuing its lonely search.