Arthur has a collection of famous artworks scattered in various rooms in various safe houses.
Oh, it's not what it sounds like. He didn't go on a stealing spree. He's not obsessed with art. Truthfully, he doesn't even like art that much. It's just...well, it's Eames' fault, really. After all, how could Arthur not challenge him when he'd claimed that he could forge any painting in the world?
"Doubt me, darling?" Eames had asked in response to Arthur's unforgiving roll of the eyes. "Go on then. Pick a painting, any painting."
Arthur had forgotten all about it until he'd stumbled upon the perfect copy of Picasso's Woman with a Guitar in his flat in Brussels two months later. Since then, the whole thing had turned into a game. Arthur would request a painting—anything from Botticelli to Mondrian—and Eames would deliver.
A few weeks ago, Arthur had stopped playing the game. When Eames had asked what it was he'd like this time, he'd simply said, "An Eames. Not a Vermeer or a Matisse...an Eames."
He'd blushed from head to toe when he'd realised what he'd said. Although it was something he'd thought about for a few months, he'd never expected it to sound so god damn cheesy out loud.
That split second of embarrassment is worth it now. He's standing in his London flat and right in the middle of the room is a canvas. Arthur still doesn't know much about art and he couldn't describe the coloured splatters of paint if he tried. The only thing he knows is that it's like nothing he's ever seen before.
The note attached says:
Darling, I've always imagined you to be more partial to more traditional art, but I couldn't imagine painting you in any other way. — Eames
When he looks at the painting, Arthur can't, in all honesty, say that he sees himself. On an intellectual level, he knows that this is him. This is how Eames sees him. But when Arthur looks at the painting he doesn't see himself...he sees something that he thinks looks a lot more like love than him.