What You See

Situated in the center of the quiet little town, sits the small Gallery of the History of Modern Art. It is unobtrusive yet houses many curious pieces of art from across the generations and various artists. It is a lovely place to spend a leisure afternoon, roaming from exhibit to exhibit allowing the art to speak to oneself. On any given day, the art can be interpreted in so many ways. The brushwork itself causes one to feel the emotion of the artist as they sat and painted the scene in front of them. Today was no different. The school group that arrived was full of young students just being introduced to the various forms of art. They arrived in their colorful outfits, distinctively showcasing the clicks of the class.  Some of the students were engaged while other dragged behind as if ostracized from the group.  Then there was the older couple slowly moving from one piece to another, commenting to each other as they held each other’s hand. They seemed to enjoy trying to understand the paintings as the artists named them. Another visitor to the Gallery was a middle-aged man with a French beret tilted on his head. His eyes did not focus for any length of time on any given piece. Several times he just sat himself down on a bench facing an exhibit and held his head in his weathered hands. These individuals seemed to be the type of visitors that frequented the Gallery. Hours would be spent before the curator would meet up with the director and usher the few stragglers out and close the welcoming doors for the night.

Once the lights started dimming and the floor lights were the only illumination in the rooms, the paintings started to awaken. They could sense the closing of the double exterior doors and the turning of the deadbolt locks. This ritual was engrained in the pieces of art. Each artist had instilled upon the canvas emotions and feelings to add to the painted scene. In the absence of human beings continually critiquing or judging, the paintings could express themselves freely together. 

The school group got a few of the paintings riled up. Just the voices and giggles that rolled out were enough to cause some of the paintings to try to defend themselves. 

“How can these youngsters even say ugly things?!”, one of the lighter canvases injected. “They have not been brushed upon and filled with colors that don’t match or blend. Did you happen to notice the group with matching outfits? They clearly were trying to stand on a pedestal above the others.” 

The darker paintings have already heard as much throughout various prior visits. They have grown accustomed to the bitter words and laughter on a daily basis. “Did you not see that small fella wearing the red sweater? He was standing all alone shuffling his feet. The other students didn’t pay any attention to him and if they did, it was to make fun of him and call him a dweeb! What did he do? Why is he not part of the group?”

The lighter canvases decided that they had a point. “We cannot know what someone is going through just by their appearance. But why do they have to be so MEAN!!”

“I recognized them all,” interjected the collage hanging in the far corner. Collectively they are one thing, but if you get a closer look, you will find a bunch of individuals with their own identity helping to form the whole. Even the red sweater dude. He is like the apple that fell from the tree and is sitting on the ground. Completing the picture.” There was a soft murmur throughout the exhibit.

“Didn’t you just love the elderly couple though?” the lighter canvases squealed. “I think they totally get the whole reason we are hung up on the wall!! We meant something to someone! The most curious thing though is that what our artist saw, may not be what the visitor sees! It just goes to show that we can be whatever someone wants us to be!” “Yes, we can,” stated the darker canvases, “but hopefully the artist has portrayed us to be helpful. Sometimes the anger tossed at our canvases seemed hurtful and demeaning. That is why we struggle to shine like the rest of you. Some of our darkness is deep. It is filled with grief or self-pity or who knows what. Sometimes we wish a speck of light would be tossed our way, like some of you impressionism pieces”

“That couple was hanging onto each other because they belong. Coming in here and being surrounded by the unknown, trying to figure it out. It must be hard, and they are lucky to try to do it together.”

“What do you make of the French looking guy? I sensed some loneliness. He even felt a bit unkept.” This remark came from a raw work of art that appeared to be distorted and out of place. “Well, that is a bit harsh,” stated the lighter canvases. “Even though he didn’t stare at us like everyone else, or read the artists’ descriptions, doesn’t mean he is a loner.” “I didn’t say he was a loner! Why do you always have to be on the Brightside? He seemed lonely is what I said!” “He did seem uninterested in everything in this room. However, that may be the reason he was here.”   

“Well maybe he is an artist that hasn’t had his artwork hung up on a wall. He just might be trying to feel the atmosphere and interpret the feel so that he can return to his studio and complete his masterpiece.” This again came from the lighter canvases. 

“Or maybe something awful happened in his life. Something he is trying to deal with but doesn’t know where to go. Isn’t that how we were created? Someone’s inner feelings and emotions brushed against canvas. Some of us furiously and others with gentle strokes.”

“Well, if he returns, we will have to study him a bit longer and more intensely. He is quite a subject for our discussions.”

As the conversation continued, a canvas painted in the cubism form seemed very animated. The banter back and forth sent vibrations up and down the wall where it was hung. Suddenly, the nail which held it up released from the wall sending the canvas of block forms to the wooden floor. The impact caused the thicker paint strokes to loosen and fly off the canvas, targeting surrounding pieces. “Oh my!”, exclaimed the artwork. “Please help me! My story is ruined, and I will be exiled from this area!” None of the other pieces could say anything. They were all stunned and confused. What were they to do? If they shook trying to remove the newly added stroke work, their own situations would be jeopardized. They would have dents and flaws that could have them removed. It they did nothing, they would have loud, apparent signs of tampering and be removed. The buzz in the exhibit multiplied and you could feel tension in the air. 

Then a soft noise was heard in the corner closet. The artwork became still. The door slowly opened and out came the red sweater little dude. He looked around the gallery with scared and timid eyes. He cautiously went from piece to piece gently removing the flung pieces of paint. Gingerly rubbing the spots where they had landed with his smooth and soft fingertips. He carefully picked up the cubism canvas and study it intensely. The pile of stroke work which he had removed was by his side. After several minutes of quiet deliberation, he began to replace the stroke work. His fingertips worked magic on the canvas and the block forms began to take shape to recreate the picture. When he finished, he gently blew upon the canvas and then returned it to the wall after replacing the nail. Still very timid, he looked around the gallery exhibit. He stood in front of each piece and found their story in the stroke work. His favorite was the apple tree where the little apple was on the ground. Smiling at this piece, he quietly turned and found the emergency exit out.