The Man In The Gallery

Szentendre was supposed to be a quiet stop—a charming detour on a long study abroad trip through Central Europe. Sometimes, it’s not the grand landmarks or centuries-old churches that leave their mark. Sometimes it’s something smaller: a flicker of connection, a conversation you didn’t see coming. That moment found me on a crisp winter afternoon, the sky a soft, gray canvas overhead, my breath curling in the cold air as I wandered just a little slower than the rest of the group. I was thousands of miles from home, adrift in a language I couldn’t speak, longing for a routine I’d left behind. And yet, in that quiet Hungarian town, I stumbled into something that felt like recognition. Like fate, even.

Szentendre is nestled just outside Budapest and is known for its cobblestone streets, vibrant colors, and a long history of being a haven for artists and creatives. On the day we visited, the sun cast soft golden rays over the rooftops, and there was an energy in the air that made the whole town feel like a living painting. It was the kind of place that makes you want to slow down and notice every brushstroke of the world around you. 

I didn’t expect Szentendre to feel like a place out of a dream. 

But we went. Just a handful of us, some I knew well, others I was still learning to trust with silence—the kind of silence that comes not from boredom, but from awe that wraps itself around you like a scarf when you stumble upon something unexpectedly beautiful. 

We took the train out of Budapest, watching the city dissolve behind us into smaller buildings, then open fields, then the winding edges of villages. Szentendre was the final stop. When we stepped off the train, the cold greeted us like a memory—the kind of cold that makes you pay attention. It wasn’t cruel, just honest. 

I stood at the edge of the meandering street, where pastel buildings leaned into each other like they were whispering secrets. The scent of river winds mixed with fried dough and cigarette smoke, curling under my nose. My group was ahead of me—loud American students in a sleepy European town—and I was caught between the desire to keep walking and the sudden need to pause. 

It looked like a watercolor painting. Cobblestone streets rolled out beneath our feet like a story waiting to be read. The houses were low and bright, painted in sunset shades of orange, peach, and lavender. Everywhere we looked, there was art. Galleries tucked into alleyways, murals, painted flower pots. Even the street corners had personality. 

We wandered. That was the plan. No schedule, no map. Just us, the town, and our curiosity. I was a little lost in the town’s maze of narrow streets and the hum of the winter chill. 

The town was quiet. Not silent, just… gentle. The sound of our boots on the road echoed slightly. We could hear birds and laughter from the direction of a café. Everything felt slower, softer, intentional. 

We roamed, dipping into little shops, following colors and textures more than signs. I stopped at a place that sold hand-painted ceramics, bright dishes with swirls of blue and red that reminded me of the ones my abuela used to collect back home. I ran my fingers across the glaze, feeling the smooth ridges beneath my gloves. 

Somewhere between a chocolate shop and a woman selling hand-embroidered blouses, we stepped into a small art gallery, or maybe it was a store. The line was blurred. What mattered was how it felt. It didn't look like much from the outside—a small wooden sign, a dusty window—but something about it pulled me in. Maybe it was the way the light spilled across the floor inside, warm and gold. Or maybe it was the energy. I’ve always been sensitive to energy, to the feeling a place gives you before you even speak. This place was warm, lived-in, like a place where every corner had a story to tell. Paintings lined the walls: portraits and abstract swirls, textured canvases alive with movement. Sculptures of women mid-dance, of eyes wide open, of roots curling into the air. 

And then we met him. His name was Osiris.

“Peace and blessings,” he said, standing behind a low wooden counter. “Welcome, family.” 

He wasn’t just someone you met, he was someone you remembered. Tall, with deep brown skin and a handmade wool hat. His smile seemed like it had lived on his face for a long time. 

He welcomed us in with a smile and immediately started talking—not at us, but to us—with a kind of openness that made you feel like you’d known him forever. He told us that he and his wife owned the gallery together and created most of the artwork we were seeing. There were paintings of Black women with halos of flowers, abstract portraits that seemed to pulse with life, and wooden sculptures that looked like they held secrets. Each piece had a story, and Osiris was more than happy to share them. 

But it wasn’t just the art that moved me, it was the way he talked about it. He didn’t just describe the process or the materials, he talked about the art as if it were alive. “Art is connection,” he said. “It’s how we remember who we are and who we can be. It’s the soul speaking through color.” He spoke about love, unity, and humanity, as though they were tangible forces that we could all access if we just slowed down and paid attention. There was no pretense in his words, no ego. Just truth. 

His accent seemed to be  a blend of Kingston and Brooklyn, rhythmic and real. 

I blinked. “You’re American?” 

He chuckled. “I’m Jamaican and American. From New York, originally. But I’ve been living here for a while now, with my wife.” 

My friends spread out, taking in the artwork, but I stayed near the counter. Something about his energy held me there. He leaned forward slightly, folding his hands. “You’re students, yeah?” 

“Yeah,” I said. “Studying abroad for the winter.” 

“Beautiful. You’re doing the work of expanding your world.” He nodded toward the nearest painting, a burst of orange and blue that looked like fire and water dancing. “That’s what art does too.” 

I smiled. “Did you make that one?” 

“My wife did the base, and I added the spirit.” He paused. “We believe every piece holds energy. It’s not just for decoration. It’s a reflection.” 

“Of what?”

“Of who we are, and who we can be. We are all connected.” He tapped the center of his chest. “Right here.” 

His words were soft, but they hit hard. I wasn’t expecting philosophy in a tucked-away gallery in Hungary. I wasn’t expecting to feel seen, not like that. 

Osiris spoke slowly, with intention, as if language were a gift he refused to waste. He told me about his life in New York. How he used to work in the city, until it started to feel too heavy. How he and his wife decided to live somewhere smaller, somewhere where art wasn’t a luxury, but survival. 

“Sometimes people think leaving is giving up,” he said. “But sometimes, it’s how you truly begin.” 

I nodded, not sure how to say what I was feeling. That I hadn’t known I needed to hear a voice like his until I heard it. He reminded me of my father. He made me think about home, not as a place, but as a sense of being rooted. 

Around us, the gallery buzzed with low conversation. My friends pointed at sculptures and whispered about which pieces to buy. Osiris turned to all of us then, spreading his arms like a teacher addressing a classroom. 

“Let me tell you something,” he said. “This world is full of noise. Anger, fear, division. But when we create, when we share... we fight back. Not with fists, but with love. With color. With connection.” He paused, letting the words settle. No one made a sound, not even the wind outside. “You don’t have to speak the same language to understand a painting,” he continued. “You don’t need to come from the same place to feel a rhythm. That’s what I mean when I say art is a bridge.”

I looked around. My friends were nodding, wide-eyed. Someone murmured, “That’s real.” 

I stepped in front of a painting of a Black woman with golden eyes and a crown of sunflowers. Her skin was painted in deep shades of brown and violet, and her expression was both fierce and tender. I stared at her for a long time. I didn’t know why, but she felt familiar. “Your energy matches hers,” Osiris said from behind me. 

I turned, startled. “Hers?” 

He nodded. “That’s Yemaya. A spirit of the ocean. A mother of creation. She’s powerful, but she listens. You have that energy. Like water—strong, but flowing.” 

I blinked. No one had ever said something like that to me. Not even my friends back home who knew me best. “Thank you,” I said softly. 

Back in the U.S., especially as a young woman of color, it’s easy to get caught in the grind—to feel like you’re always performing, always adjusting yourself to fit into rooms not built for you. I told him that. I told him how hard it can be to just… exist. 

He nodded. “You don’t have to shrink to survive. Remember that. You carry the stories of your people in your skin, in your voice. Speak to them boldly.” 

Those words stayed with me. I would scribble them down later in my journal, like scripture. He showed me a piece his wife had made—a sculpture of two figures wrapped around each other, their bodies shaped like waves. “She’s the reason I learned to listen again,” he said. “To really listen. To my own heartbeat, to the land. To the silence between words.” That hit me in the chest.

We talked about diaspora and what it means to carry many homes inside you. He told me that every painting in the gallery was a kind of homecoming. “It’s a way of mapping the soul,” he said. “Of remembering the roads that brought you here.” 

I asked him what advice he’d give to someone like me, someone trying to figure out how to live truthfully. 

“Don’t wait for permission,” he said without hesitation. “Your voice is already sacred. Use it.” 

Before we left, each of us picked something to take with us. I chose a small canvas no bigger than a notebook, a portrait of a woman whose eyes reminded me of my grandmother’s. Strong, knowing, soft around the edges. 

As Osiris wrapped it in brown paper, he looked at me. “You’re a writer, aren’t you?” 

“Yeah. How’d you know?” 

He smiled. “You listen with your whole body. Writers do that. You’ll tell stories like this one day.” 

In Osiris’s gallery, surrounded by color and warmth, I found stillness. I felt seen, not for what I was studying or where I came from, but just for being myself. That was the power Osiris carried: he treated everyone like they mattered. 

We took a photo before we left. We stood in a circle, arms raised and interlocked, hands forming hearts in front of our chests. It was cheesy, sure, but it was also perfect. A snapshot of joy, recognition.

Out on the street again, the world felt different. Brighter, or maybe I was just seeing it more clearly. The cobblestones under my feet looked like puzzle pieces, like a map guiding me somewhere I didn’t know I needed to go. 

We continued exploring. I bought a set of nesting dolls painted by hand, each one a little darker in shade than the last. They reminded me of my lineage, my mother’s mother’s mother—the women who made me. 

We passed under a canopy of rainbow umbrellas strung above the street. They swayed in the breeze like they were dancing. I laughed out loud, surprising myself. They reminded me of home. Of San Juan. Of color for the sake of joy. Those umbrellas felt like a message from the universe. “Look,” I told one of my friends, pointing up. “Even the sky is celebrating.” 

Later, we found a courtyard lined with old books. There were shelves carved into stone walls and a wooden bench, worn smooth by time. I sat for a while, book in hand, but I didn’t read, just breathed. The moment was enough. 

Szentendre will always be more than a stop on a map for me. It’s a symbol. A reminder of what’s possible when you open your heart to new places and people. It is a lesson in presence, in gratitude, and in the deep beauty of the human spirit. 

And all of it began with a man named Osiris, standing in a small gallery filled with color, offering kindness to a group of students who just happened to walk through his door. I may never see Osiris again, but I hope he knows the difference he made. I hope he knows that his words still echo in my heart. That his art is more than paint on canvas—it’s a living expression of unity and light. And I hope to live that way too. To create, to connect, to remind others of the joy that still exists in this world.

Sometimes, when I write, I hear Osiris’s voice in my head: gentle, steady, true, “Your voice is already sacred. Use it.” 

So I do. Every time I put pen to paper, I am answering the man in the gallery.

Triniti W. Brown

Triniti W. Brown is a Public Relations and Creative Writing double major in her Senior year from Providence RI. With a dream for working in the publishing industry she has been writing stories since elementary school, with a love and passion for poetry. “The Man in The Gallery” is her first experimentation with creative non-fiction writing.