Good Yielding

It was midnight and Salvador Dalí’s ghost stepped over the dozing morphine addict and walked inside. The termites would take the building out by noon. It should have happened before. As the wood was being gnawed away comfortably, it should have collapsed down on audaciously dressed visitors squinting at ancient frescoes. The images of man and woman coming closer and closer to their eyes. But it didn’t happen then. It happened at noon. A janitor was the only casualty. He was now cleaning the polluted air with his metal vacuum brush. It is all fun for the janitor. He doesn’t notice any of the art pieces surrounding him. He has seen them already before. But the little strings of dust are all new and different. They are so miniature which makes them all the better. Any great thing has already been picked clean, so why bother. He watched the dust getting sucked into the galvanized tube which went to the central machine—all with a fascination for nothing in particular. So when Dalí was there, the janitor did not notice at all. Nor did he notice the many others whom Salvador had invited for company to the art museum. 

They started as one abysmally. Once noticing which tectonic plate was theirs, they snapped off. The abstracts in one, followed by the impressionists, followed by the classics—so on. They hummed awful music. All of their fingers were yellow with cigar residue. They all carried wine but never drank it. They did not travel upon their own feet but were carried on the backs of their muses. Some artists with many muses had a combined armada, while other muses with many artists had to widen their shoulders up a bit. 

Many problems arose in this dense cluster of geniuses. Van Gogh pointed a sharp dagger at Gauguin’s chin after Gauguin gave him a critical remark. With the sharp edge of a blade on his chin, he just laughed it off not as a joke, but as evidence for his insanity. It seemed that this only helped Vincent’s popularity—his section being the most viewed that night. Gauguin was insolent to everyone after that to say the least. He only mildly observed the African section while scowling at the rest. 

Then there came the time that Titian’s posture was being copied by Rembrandt. Degas then tried to copy Rembrandt. Pissarro then tried to copy Degas. The whole group soon realized that their backs wouldn’t shape into another place but theirs. 

The real problem started like this. As they marched past each painting their supply of good-smacking tobacco came to a dimming close. One artist screamed hysterically. Another spat constantly at the ground. Soon many more had insidious reactions. Then everyone was in disbelief.

“Hi i’m here.” 

On each one. Close to the center. Scribbled. A three-year-old’s handwriting. Cyan crayon. Each had the letter i in Hi bent like it was italicized. Each had the i in i’m lowercase. Each had a line slashed right under the whole phrase. Each one looked prompt in time and in fashion and in the skill displayed on the canvas. They looked around for revenge. They were artists so it was a custom for them. But it was strikingly apparent, after only a few seconds, that the kid who drew on all of their paintings with cyan crayon, with an italicized i, a line slashed under it, and with no real time wasted, was gone from the museum. He left no other clues.

They looked around for an eraser. One found it. But with hands of unmatter—there was no way to pick up these very real objects. Then they tapped on the shoulder of the janitor. First lightly, then annoyingly, then aggressively, then emotionally. They did nothing to him. It might have stirred his soul but he was little more than dreaming. They had no more options until eight when the doors opened.

The people came in from the loud cruelty of the city, to the quiet of the museum. They all looked bored but determined in some way. The worker with the station hat on was at the desk getting questions from the gloved visitors. The artists felt like their names were being shredded into a baby’s milk jug when they heard the noises these people gave off.

“Twenty dollars?” said the person.

“Fifteen dollars before ten. Children free,” said the worker.

“Is there a café nearby?” said the person

“We have one in the lounge. You will enjoy our selections,” said the worker.

“Do you take coupons?” said the person.

“Yes,” said the worker.

He went up to one of them as they were in the middle of conversation.

“Is there any way I can get a book of all these in mini-format?” said the person.

“We have them in the shop. You will enjoy our selections,” said the worker.

“See what they did to it.”

“I’m sorry. Did you say something to me there?” said the person.

“No,” said the worker.

“You had my page and insulted it.”

“I’m sorry. My hearing aid must be weird this morning. I’m sorry,” said the person.

“Oh no. Don’t worry. Perhaps I talked but didn’t notice what I was saying again,” said the worker.

He knew this was going nowhere. Yet he kept talking to her until she turned off her hearing aid. All the others whispered and shouted and cussed into the ears of the spectators. They did this because they could see that none of them were noticing the artwork and its stain. They all would look at the outline but never the actual subject. And they all turned down their hearing aids.

“Why do you not look at my painting?”

“I do. This painting is from Eugène Delacroix in the middle of his life. I feel like this is his final determination in portraying the people as a collective force, and not just objects.” The person fidgeted over to the next painting in the line. “Now this painting was a watermark in bringing forth the romantic spirit in art. It has magnificent poignancy when examining the extended arms of the female figure and form.” He went to the next, now in an assembly line march. “I like the use of green in this one.” He continued doing this.

Delacroix begged, “Why did you come here today?” 

“I don’t know.” The person hiccuped. “It’s great being intelligent.”

This went on until lunchtime. Everybody filed out to go to the assorted restaurants and shops and stores. Now it was just the janitor and the great painters. Here was their original visitor, never having noticed their works, and leaving soon. They all crowded around their paintings. Blocking the view of their works so that if anybody did care to look at the painting, they would always be there to never allow that to happen again. Dalí was the last to join in. Gala crossed her legs and placed his body in the image created once when he was alive.

Noon came. The janitor stopped his cleaning.