Unknown

I work the overnight security shift at an art gallery in a small town a few hours south of Chicago. During the four hours it’s open during the day, the gallery is probably the most exciting thing to do in this area. I am here from 7pm-7am, Tuesday through Thursday and the modern art on the walls and floors has pretty much infested my dreams at this point. I don’t mind it though. My life got away from me a few years ago and I needed a reset. So I moved here, where I know no one and I don’t really have to be better than I am. It’s a lonely sanctuary of sorts, and being here so often prevents me from making more mistakes; from getting hurt. This job brought me back to Earth after many sleep-deprived, drug-infused, hazy days and ugly nights. Somehow, I feel like being surrounded by all this oddball, pretentious art in the middle of the night has made me more creative myself. I bought a sketchbook for $3.99 shortly after my first night here. Some self-proclaimed healer that wouldn’t stop talking at me on my walk home a while ago told me that art is a good way to heal. He was wearing sandals and cargo shorts and had lost his shirt somewhere. He told me that making art by “letting my unfiltered emotions flow right onto the page” might help me ground myself and process some things, and honestly, I think it has. My hands are getting steadier everyday. A few months ago my drawings were exclusively gray. I used the same Ticonderoga No. 2  pencil every night, right down to the eraser. I’ve recently upgraded to a twenty-four pack of colored pencils and my pieces have been a little less brutal.   

When I’m not adding to my sketchbook or watching old movies on my phone to pass the time, I find myself being drawn to the same art over and over. Whenever I get restless, I try to discover tiny details in the gallery pieces that I hadn’t noticed before. A quirky brushstroke, a difference in the tints of two peoples’ flushed cheeks, a crack that looks neither intentional or accidental. 

I wish I was this observant a year ago. There's always something new to be found. It amazes me how complex these things can be, and how much we don’t notice until we actively look for it. 

I have dozed off a few times here. These long blinks usually come with the most vivid and bizarre dreams that cram about two weeks worth of content into ten minutes. In my dreams, whether they be during my on-company-time naps or in my bed at home, sometimes my “mother” is the tall, slender, and gentle glass figure that sits directly down the hall from the entryway. The figure has my mother’s voice and, always, a wine glass attached to at least one of her appendages. I haven’t spoken to her since I left.

When I dream of alleged “strangers”, they take the form of the fishermen made of yarn in the hallway leading to the bathrooms. They’re usually quiet and friendly. The older regulars at the local dive bar remind me of them. I don’t know any of their names. If I could look down at my hands in a dream, they’re usually still covered in lead from that beaten down pencil and I can’t ever wash it off, no matter how hard I scrub. People and things take on new forms in my dreams and I am always trying, to no avail, to fix something I’ve ruined. When I wake up, that panicked, guilty feeling tends to linger a little too long in my consciousness. 

Tonight, with four hours left until quitting time, I have no creative drive and can’t seem to decide on what media to distract me for the rest of the night, so I take my boots off, make myself at home, and end up sprawled out on the floor with my legs and arms reaching out like a star. If the roof was removed, I could see all the stars twinkling some light at me from years ago. 

I stay here until sleep almost takes over. I sit up and twist from one side to the other, cracking my back. The most frustratingly enjoyable piece hung directly on the wall in front of me when I faced forward.  

It’s a specific oil painting of various glowing, golden orbs titled Unknown and created by “Unknown”. I find myself staring at it, almost in a trance, for at least a few minutes every night I’m here. The golden orbs are faceless and have no features or embellishment. They are a bright gold in the center and they grow more transparent from there with a soft glow surrounding them. They are simply painted onto a white canvas. No background or foreground. No patterns or playful technique. Nothing human about them, but, when I look at them, it seems like they have something to say. Something that I could understand if I had the chance to hear it. There’s four of these orbs stretched across a canvas on the wall in front of the spiral staircase that ascends into the building’s tower-like high point of the ceiling. The staircase is also an art piece, leading to nowhere, entirely adorned with seashells. The orb art has no description besides “oil on canvas”. When I asked the gallery curator if she knew any other details, she shook her head and grinned.

“This piece is an odd one. It showed up on our doorstep the night before our opening day. No note, no phone number, nothing to help us identify the artist. But, I thought it was magnetic. Don’t you think so? Whoever the artist is has a gift.” 

These orbs of color and light make appearances in most of my dreams. They never seem very important, though. They’re just there. Like a bystander or a silent observer or a wallflower at a party. 

In this painting that I have a questionable penchant for, there are endless possibilities. My boss said it reminds her of the fat and cute canaries that nested in the tree in her backyard. Ellen, a girl I met at the bar one night and snuck into work, said it was a visual embodiment of jazz. I can’t make up my mind on what I think it is, if it’s anything at all. Right now, they are simply orbs. I wonder what the artist saw in their own final product and I wonder where Ellen is tonight. 

I finally pull myself from Unknown by Unknown and look at the clock. 6:55AM. The morning sun pierces through the stained glass behind me, scattering colors across the floor. I do one final walk through the gallery and go back to my little desk to grab my bag. When I get home, I plan on climbing into bed and staying there until my next shift. I look down at my feet as I’m heading to the door and notice I never put my shoes back on. I must’ve been delirious when I took them off, because they aren’t by my desk and they aren’t on the floor below Unknown. I drop my bag by the door and sigh. 

It’s 7:04AM now and I’m looking behind a vase for my worn out boots. Nothing. I go to my desk and check the drawers which only hold old notebooks and candy wrappers. Every bathroom stall is clean and tidy and shoeless. How could I possibly lose my own shoes in this place? Now, standing in the middle of the gallery, I decide to just walk home in my socks and let my boss know she might find a pair of black combat boots tomorrow. I walk back to the exit when I hear them. Heavy steps down the spiral staircase. My boots! I hear my boots but the step is heavier than mine. More confident and commanding. I am the only one here and all the doors and windows are still locked. I turn around and stumble back towards the wall behind me as the thumping sound of boots travels to me from the top of the staircase behind the orbs, leading up to the highest point of the ceiling. The hairs on my arms stand up. My view is obstructed and I would not be able to see the top of the staircase unless I get close enough to step up myself. I should just run out, but this person or thing or beast wearing my shoes somehow asks me to come closer without words. I give in and walk to the staircase. About half way there, I’m stopped in my tracks by Unknown. This damn painting! I can’t look away, like usual, but this time something is different. My heart rate skyrockets and the sounds of the steps continue as I’m pulled further into the gaze of the orbs. Then they speak. I knew they could! 

“Up, up, up!”

They tell me in sweet voices that harmonize without trying. I didn’t notice, but I had started crying at some point between the exit and the painting. 

“Up, up, up, Charlie! You’ll finally see.”

And so, I end up gliding over to the spiral staircase with no effort. The seashells are  glimmering and assorted delicately across each inch of the staircase. I take a breath, in and out, and begin to ascend. I feel weightless with my first step and I look up. No boots, no beast, just…light. Golden light shines, glows, and expands across my entire vision, but I don’t stop climbing. 

I am still climbing and searching in the glow.