The Art of Nothingness

“Please, Uncle Manny, you just have to come with me,” she pleaded, her voice rising in a dramatic whimper.

He looked down at his niece's angst-riddled face.

“ I know you will love it, it's immersive.”

“Wait, does that mean I’m going to get soaked?” he teased, flashing a mischievous grin.

She giggled.

“I haven't been to an art museum in ages. What do I know about art?”

She sighed. “You are still my sophisticated Uncle, even if you play with chickens and tractors all day.”

Manny was a country boy now. The mud still clung to his boots, leaving prints wherever he walked. The scent of earth and hay followed him, a reminder of the morning's chores among the corn and the clucking of hens. It wasn't always like this.

Once, he thrived in the city with Butch by his side. An aspiring artist, he sketched urban landscapes and vibrant life. Leaving the city wasn't a choice made lightly. Single after so many years and pressures mounting, he yearned for simplicity and the quiet calm that green spaces offered. Choosing the rural life away from the city didn’t offer him much time for serious pursuits. The only thing he remembered about previous museum visits was how shiny the floors were. Like a pond in winter, he used to slide the length of the galleries in one shot. Now, his niece was asking him to go to a place that more resembled a hospital than a home for art.

Placing his reading glasses on, he read the placard at the entrance.

“The Museum of Transience and The Art of Nothingness” presents artist Sebastian Camelot Louis-Cartier's, 'Fragmentation of Self: The Aesthetic of Meaninglessness.' “

Manny smirked. “Well, this should be fun.”

He had no idea what any of that meant, and entered the museum.

“There you are,” his niece said, holding his arms and smiling. “Have fun. I hope you enjoy it,” she continued, as she scanned the space.

“I have to docent tonight, but I am right over there if you need me.”

“What--- why? I have to do this alone?” he whined, deflating a bit.

“I'm right over there,” she said with a snark, pointing towards the side of the gallery.

A young man caught his eye, dressed as a docent too. He smiled.

“Okay, okay,” he said, grinning. “Have fun with gallery boy.”

She smiled, a twinkle in her eyes as she flitted away.

The room was filled with a low hum of hushed conversations and the footfalls of patrons on the polished marble floor, punctuated by the distant sound of a docent reminding a visitor to step back from the exhibit.

He turned towards the first display.

Placed away from the wall.

In a space of its own.

Stood a pile of bricks

.

The bricks tumbled in a careless heap, as if someone had just tipped them out. Overhead, a naked bulb flickered and sputtered, uncertain whether to shine or give up. It swung gently on its frayed cord, making shadows play ‘hide and seek’ around the pile. As he observed, he overheard a nearby group discussing the piece.

"It underscores the ephemerality of constructed spaces, within the existential void," said the curator, addressing the crowd with confidence and precision.

Manny chuckled at the pretentiousness, 'It's a pile of bricks.'

The museum card read:

“ As We Make Our Way Through Life—- so it should be.”

Found Materials, Reclaimed Light,

2024

Standing a moment, hands in his pockets, trying to grasp what he was seeing, he tried to appear as if he belonged. The woman beside him, a slash of black and jewels, a collar of fur, eyes of ice--- holding something that looked more like a dust mop than a dog, stood judging him.

She whispered.

“It's about collapse--- Entropy.”

He turned to her.

“You know what entropy is?” she asked, daggers piercing him.

Smirking, he replied. "Sure, I do.”

He stared back at her, daring her to think he was stupid, and in that instant, he decided to make this fun.

“I've seen it a lot. An animal goes missing. Dies in the pasture. You find it a week later, all bloated. Legs in the air," he said, his arms straight as hoe handles.

His tone was light, almost teasing, but beneath his amusement, a flicker of discomfort. All this fakeness and hauty-tautyness made him angry, but he knew he could fake his way through it.

She clutched her handbag to her chest, disgust seeping from her pores.

“Nah--- reminds me of when my barn lost its roof.”

He paused.

She blinked.

“Collapsed!” she stated again, lowering her purse.

He ignored the implication that either she was right or he didn’t hear her.

“Sure did. Snow came down heavily. Looked a lot like this. Light swinging in the air,” he said, as he swayed. Feet stationary, upper body back and forth, like he was a metronome.

“Smelled like disaster, mixed with soggy hay.”

She curled up her nose, staring at him. Blinking rapidly, like something was in her eyes, she replied. “That's... haunting.”

A whisper in her voice in silent reverence.

She began to relax around him while others started drawing closer. A young man, perhaps a student, retrieved a small, spiral pad from his pocket and jotted something down. Manny, befuddled as several more joined what approached becoming a throng, knew he shouldn’t make fun of all of this. He loved his niece, but there was a reason he didn’t do this anymore. He looked around at them and moved towards the next display, trying to slip away. They moved with him. Like cattle curious about a new opening in the fence.

His niece, watching from across the gallery, wondered why the group was following her Uncle.

“What's he doing?” she wondered aloud.

He came to the next piece. A huge canvas layered in gray. Textures and gradients of color marched across its surface. Fierce, angry, and crooked, a swaggering line gashed from side to side. Its blackness looked as if it were trying to rip the image in half.

The museum card read:

“The Obtuseness of Truth”

80” x 410” wallpaper paste, gypsum, oil paint on plywood

2024

He stared blankly, raising his hand to his chin.

Others mimicked him.

“Storm front,” he said softly.

“The moment before all chaos breaks loose.”

He casually moved his eyes across his peripheral vision, seeing if they were still listening.

“It's the stillness before the weather hits."

Everyone stopped moving.

“Silently, the clouds rolling in," he said, moving dramatically.

"Making the air fill with energy."

He rose to full height.

"The darkness increases," he moved rapidly, arms outstretched face full of fear.

"Pressure builds."

He balled his fists, turning towards the ceiling.

"Silence...."

"The birds stop singing."

The young man scribbled frantically in his notebook.

“It's like anticipation,” he said breathlessly. “It's profound.”

Manny inhaled through his nose, fighting every urge not to laugh. He turned to the painting, a grin broadly on his face.

They moved on to the next curated piece.

It was a video of a man digging a hole. On a loop, after about five minutes, you see the man starting all over. In black and white, spattered with grime, it was made to feel vintage. Even what the man was wearing was evident of another time. The museum card read:

“In a Vacuum, Love is Everything”

digital recording displayed on a Lenovo Think Vision 49 Ultra p49w-30

side mounted

2024

Manny pondered.

He felt the stares on the back of his head, the anticipation from his followers. What could he say that was 'profound'?”

He smiled.

“Sometimes.”

He removed his glasses, holding them by a bow, elbow resting on his hip.

“A hole is just a hole.”

They gasped.

He fought the urge to say more, but the words seemed to catch in his throat. Something connected. Even though he was being silly, sometimes simple truths can carry weight. Now more of his followers had pads out. Their pens fluttered like moth wings as they scribbled across the paper.

Clearing his throat, he continued. “Now digging one...”

He tilted his head as if perplexed, raising his glasses, and placed a bow at his lips.

They waited.

“You strain. You cuss. You use energy and sweat.”

They listened.

“You feel the weight of the dirt. You're muscles ache. You keep going.”

They leaned in closer.

Manny contained his composure.

“Maybe that's it. Must be about trying.”

He stopped his rapid-fire answers, resting his glasses on his nose.

Silence fell over them.

Someone whispered, “Beautiful.”

Again, he almost laughed. Anticipation danced in the air as if it were fragile. Everyone was waiting for him to say more. He couldn't, or he would find himself rolling on the floor.

The evening stretched out across the rest of the exhibit. He found himself enjoying the time and was glad he made an effort for his niece. As he walked out of the exhibit, he chuckled at how his offhand remark, 'Sometimes, a hole is just a hole,' sparked such awe. To him, the phrase means simplicity or that things should be accepted as they are. And tonight, he realized how fake this whole art world had become. He always wanted art to ‘just’ be art, but it evolved into something more. A reminder that he didn't have to understand everything or assign meaning to every canvas or sculpture for it to be worthwhile. He could still create his art.

He approached the truck as the night embraced him. The dark was honest. The kind of dark he knew. The lights of the city shimmered in the Museum's walls of glass as he turned towards it and grinned.

The voice came soft, like the light just before the sunset, like it always did. Not from outside— just behind his chest.

“You used to love going to these places,” the voice said.

Manny sighed, shoulders slumping.

“Art used to be fun," he said, turning back to the truck. "When did it stop being a source of joy? When did it become entangled with messages, meanings, and agendas, instead of simply being something beautiful to look at?”

He paused.

“She thought she needed to ask me what ‘entropy’ meant?”

“Well did she?” the voice asked lightly.

He sniggered. “You know better than that... you of anyone. Should I give you a definition from Merriam-Webster?”

He approached the driver's door and climbed in.

“The world changes. Time changes. Even you change Manny,” the voice said softly.

“You're the smartest man I know. Don't hide behind your tractors and chickens and dirt. Paint again--- draw again. Be the man I know and love.”

He slumped forward, turning his head toward the passenger side. He touched the picture placed on the glove box. A calmness came to him.

“Why does everything have to be so pretentious?—- So over the top?” he muttered. “I'll try not to hide anymore,” he said quietly, and lowered his hand.

Butch's eyes gleamed from the past. His smile made Manny remember.

A tap on the glass made him turn. Her radiant face beamed at him.

“Thank you so much, Uncle Manny,” she said, as the window lowered.

“We're off to have coffee. Would you like to join us?” she asked, turning to the young man beside her.

It was her gallery boy.

“No, Cee-Cee, thank you,” he said, eyes back and forth between them.

“I've had enough fun for the evening.”

“They sure loved you. What were all those people following you around for?”

Manny grinned.

“Knowledge and wisdom—— I'm full of it,” he said sarcastically.

Cee-Cee laughed. “That you are Uncle Manny.” She giggled. “That you are.”

He watched his niece turn, reaching her hand towards the young man's. He felt a spark of happiness for the first time in a while and decided it was time to stop hiding. Starting his truck, he looked at Butch.

“Sometimes, a hole is just a hole.”

The engine roared.

“I need a new shovel.”

Happy Birthday, My Butch

10/12/68 - 10/12/13