Docent

Susan stood before the entrance to the Hall of Paintings waiting for her first tour group of the day to arrive, they were due any minute. “Ms. Torson,” an annoyed voice whispered from behind her, she jumped the warm breath tracing itself sickly along her neckline. Turning around she stared into the chubby, frog-like cheeks of her boss, Mr. Eldenbar. He was, per usual, puffing on an unlit cigar that hung from his lip its ashen end resting easily on the top of his quadruple chin.

“Yes, sir?” She managed without choking on the cigar stench that poised as his breath. Her feet stepped away from the harsh assault on her senses involuntarily. Mr. Eldenbar sniffed heavily in disgust but continued irritably. “Ms. Torson, are you aware,” his voice lowered slightly as members of the tour group began to gather at the entrance to the exhibit. “That on average your section of the tour runs ten to fifteen minutes behind?”

“No sir,” she had to concentrate not to roll her eyes. If she could help it she avoided Mr. Eldenbar as much as possible. Not only was his hygiene seriously marred by the stench of cigar smoke that permeated his whole being, but he was also an unbearably offensive man. He shoved his big round belly into everyone's personal space and if they tried to create some distance he took offense. He lumbered down halls careening from side to side like a penguin except he would ram people out of the way without so much as an excuse me. “I wasn’t aware of that.” She lied, she often forgot to watch the clock knowing perfectly well that she was dragging her feet.

“Well,” he croaked around his cigar, “do something about it. Or I will.” He careened away grumbling to himself about the rest of his day.

With a deep breath, Susan turned to the group. “Hello,” she called pleasantly. “My name’s Susan and I’ll be leading you through our fully immersive exhibit The Hall of Paintings.” She pushed open the double doors revealing a long white hallway beyond. “This way please,” she ushered them inside.

The group stared confused as Susan gathered them before an intricately designed empty frame. “Now as you can see,” she indicated four more gilded frames of various designs that were also empty. “This truly is a fully immersive exhibit.” Paint began pouring from the frames into the blank spaces.

The frame before them was filled with an image of a long blonde hair nude woman standing on a mussel shell. Susan held her hand up for attention. “Follow me please.” They watched as her fingers slid past the edge of the frame locking down on the shells edge, pulling forward she stepped into the painting. Behind her, a middle-aged woman followed looking around amazed as she did so, the rest quickly followed.

“Painted by the Italian painter Sandro Botticelli sometime in the mid-1480s, most likely between 1485 and 1487.” She stepped aside so the patrons could watch the wind blow through Venus’ hair. She smiled, nodding at them as her attendant wrapped a red and black polka-dotted shawl around her. The smell of the ocean surrounded them, the lapping of the waves against the shore mingled with the sounds of soft giggling on the wind.

“Painted during the Florentine Renaissance with tempura on canvas. The Birth of Venus depicts the nude goddess emerging fully formed from the sea,”

She led them to the edge of the picture frame, it acted as a stopper for the paint.

“Of course, Birth of Venus,” she continued leading them back into the Hall of Paintings, “was the first non-religious nude since classical antiquity.”

She offered her hand for each member of the tour as they stepped down out of the frame, never ceasing her well-practiced banter. “Now the Dominican Monk Savonarola, the architect behind the burning of the vanities, was attempting to rid the world of what he considered to be profanity and frivolity. But, miraculously Birth of Venus survived. This, of course, allows us to continue enjoying one of the greatest Renaissance paintings.”

Susan allowed them to study the painting a few moments before clearing her throat. “Next,” she ushered them along. “We have the famous painting The Scream.”

She paused as they crowded eagerly around the oil painting watching as the androgynous screamer in the front was avoided by the pier walkers in the back. “Edvard Munch first called his famous painting The Scream of Nature in German but it was translated as Skrik, or Shriek, in Norwegian. From there Munch’s masterpiece garnered the English name, The Scream.”

She paused before the frame. “For those of you who have never taken the tour before please be prepared,” she reached inside grabbing the pier railing to pull on, “for the suddenness of The Scream.” Stepping into the painting she held her hand out for a small brown-haired girl to take.

“Come along now,” Susan pulled the girl in. Immediately her ears filled with an agonized, shrill wail that battered the air around them as if the oils were reverberating the sound all around. The girl shirked a look of panic filling her face until Susan spoke. “Give it a moment dear you’ll almost forget it’s there.”

Susan waited until everyone had adjusted to the shock of the wail before continuing her spiel. “Now The Scream, painted in 1893 has become one of the most iconic images in art.” She walked along the pier past the shrieking figure who turned its pale head to watch her pass without ceasing its shriek.

“Many people believe The Scream symbolizes the anxieties of the human condition. The agony and confusion we all feel in life at one point or another are represented here.”

She walked back motioning for the group to move before her to the edge of the canvas. “Move along now,” she urged. “I’m sure you’re all ready to be free of the anxieties of the human condition.” Slowly they climbed from the painting into the sudden silence of the hall. Susan quickly followed soothed by the blissful silence after that awful screeching.

Giving them a moment to watch the screamer as it agonized the couple with the everlasting torment of its terror and pain she cleared her throat ushering them along to the next painting. Briefly, she glanced at a clock hanging near the end of the passageway, she was getting through the tour in a great time Mr. Eldenbar would have nothing to complain about if she kept up this pace.

“Now,” she stopped in front of the blue and yellow wind swept painting of Saint-Remy. “I’m sure most, if not all, of you have heard of Vincent Van Gogh's The Starry Night,” she allowed them to look upon the swirling sky of Van Gogh’s famous painting. “To be honest it’s my personal favorite of the collection. The beautiful way the paint swirls with the breeze. The melody,” she paused swaying a smile creasing her face ever so softly. “Is the peace one feels on a warm spring night as they lay under a blanket of stars and the bright light of the full moon.” She was transported to happier places and times for a second, then with a deep sigh of resignation that drug her back to reality she blinked at the waiting tour group.

“Van Gogh was a Dutch post-impressionist who painted the view from his asylum window at Saint-Remy-de-Provence.” She stepped into the golden frame, short black hair whipping about in the breeze as the others filled in behind her. As promised they were met by a sublime melody. Each note building on the last growing ever higher, lifting their spirits to heights of joy they had not felt since childhood, before crashing down all around them as a wave of swirling sound that enveloped them like the womb. Bringing with it the comforts of home, the love of a mother's kiss, even the sweetness of grandparents laugh before it began to climb the register again.

“Van Gogh,” Susan forced herself to concentrate through the euphoria to do her job. “Was in Saint-Remy for a year starting May of 1889.” She paused allowing the swirling breeze to crash the melody over them inspiring them toward greater heights than they ever imagined themselves capable of before.

“During that time,” she finally continued. “Van Gogh was a very prolific painter producing some of the best-known works of his career including his self-portrait, or the blue self-portrait as some call it.”

They stood a while allowing the wind to carry them along like they were part of the crescendo and crash of the music filling the painting. Somewhere in the music a lone, piercing, sadness filled the wind.

It seemed they were all content to stay for as long as life would allow, going from inspiring height to inspiring height. Their imaginings growing ever grander, more robust, and all-consuming. Suddenly Mr. Eldenbar’s voice floated in, coming from everywhere at once. The sound broke the spell upon the group. “Ms. Torson,” Mr. Eldenbar sounded annoyed, it was practically dripping from his voice like honey from a comb.”The whole tour is supposed to last twenty minutes, remember?”

Susan jumped as if someone had poked her with a stick. “Oh, sorry,” she groggily shooed the mesmerized guests free of the painting and its hypnotic effects.

They stood there for a moment watching the swirls of paint as they regained control of themselves. The silence and blazing whiteness seemed an attack on their senses after the melodic shadowy nature of Van Gogh’s genius.

Susan ushered them from The Starry Night toward a desolate landscape with images of timepieces melting upon it in various places. “This,” she mumbled before retrying. “Here we have the 1931 painting The Persistence of Memory by Salvador Dali. It is,” she droned on not particularly interested in the Dali painting. “One of the most recognized works of Surrealism.”

She swung into the painting lazily, walking in ever slower motion along the dark sand. They followed time dragging at them the farther they walked the slower they trudged until they felt as if they must reverse themselves of forever be mired in the timeless void of the imagery. And indeed as Susan came toward them and the edge of the painting the pull of time began to release them so that when they stepped free of the frame they once again moved normally.

Susan grimaced at them. “A rather unpleasant experience I've always thought so myself. Though some rather enjoy it, apparently.” She shrugged unable to fathom anyone enjoying such an invasion of the natural order of the universe.

“It does, however, lead us to our final piece of artwork The Garden of Earthly Delights by Hieronymus Bosch.” She waved them on to a large piece with three separate panels each depicting a different religious era of man; the joining of Eve with Adam, the lustful living of man, and finally the hellish consequences of sin.

“Dali leads us to Bosch through the use of his “fading” creature, who often appeared in Dali’s work. This creature was said to be inspired by the Paradise section of Bosch’s piece.” Susan told them.

“Here Bosch created a triptych oil painting on an oak panel,” she grabbed the edges of the oak box that held the painting, closing it in on itself for a moment so they could see the outside. The outer oak panels had a transparent planet earth with a flat surface running horizontally through the middle of it. The horizon was filled with beautiful green plants and crystal clear waters. The entire image was rendered in green-grey hues.

“Here we have represented the third day of creation,” she pointed her finger along the horizon, “before humans or animals were created. You can see the typical green-grey coloring known as grisaille here. It is, of course, indicative of other Netherlandish triptychs of the age.” She re-opened the painting revealing the three panels inside.

“Inside on the first panel,” she hoisted herself up. “We have the pre-incarnate Christ offering Adam, the first man, Eve, the first woman, as his helpmate.”

They stepped inside feeling a deep silence pressing down on them as if they had entered a cathedral. The majesty of the moment could be felt in every breath taken, in every step upon the canvas. The group watched in awe as Adam took Eve’s hand for the first time. Primal love surged through the panel as their fingers pressed together.

In a flash they found themselves standing amongst naked women playing in a pool of water with a peacock and enjoying beautiful red apples as they did so. All around them other nude people lounged or walked about in various stages of lustful enjoyment.

“Welcome to the Garden of Earthly Delights,” she paused watching a stooped naked male lugging a mussel shell on his back trudging slowly past. As he trailed away two pairs of giggling, naked legs poked out of the open end of the shell. “Where you can see the inhabitants are engaged in various forms of eroticism. It has been called both a spiritual transition and a playground of corruption throughout the years.”

Susan spread her arms wide indicating the chaotic lust festival all around them. They watched the merrimaking for some time. Naked people were cavorting in an apple orchard with much joy and laughter. Beyond this was a pool with more nudes swimming about, and climbing on, a water-bound globe.

Finally, another flash pulled them into the panic and chaos of the last Hellish panel. Screams rent the air, darkness covered everything, people were shoved up against one another jostled about recklessly. Spears of light, long golden shafts of it, pierced the darkness in the distance. The light was barely enough for them to witness the atrocities that crawled through the shadowy places.

Suddenly a twelve-foot high pair of ears, sans the head they should have hung from, came stumbling past a handful of suffering naked souls crawling along with it on their backs. The ears were pinned together at the top by an old spear, they brandished a long butcher knife before them.

The tour group recoiled in terror as the rest of the horrific images paraded around them keeping time with a series of soul-wrenching screams of despair. When it seemed the group was ready to bolt into the chaos in some insane attempt to escape Susan snapped her fingers. The whole lot of them were suddenly standing in the hall before the triptych. Each of them was shaken, struggling to calm down. They sucked in lung fulls of fresh air as if the stench of Hell had followed them.

“That’s awful,” a middle-aged grandfather complained as he pulled his grandson closer to him protectively. “We don’t want to experience any more of this!”

Susan gave a disarming smile. “We’re all perfectly safe, I assure you.” she motioned them to a small table laden with Gatorade and piles of oatmeal cookies.

“Bosch is always last in the Hall of Paintings,” she comforted. “Have some cookies, they really do help.” The group chewed the cookies wandering around taking quick furtive glances at the paintings as if they were afraid to look too long or hard for fear of being sucked back in.

Finally, Susan drew their attention. “Ladies and gentlemen if you’ll come this way please,” she raised both arms beckoning for them to follow her through the next set of double doors at the end of the hall. As they left the paint faded back into the frames.

“Well,” she said the doors closing behind them hiding the Hall of Paintings. “We’ve finished the fully immersive section of our tour. I’d personally like to thank you for joining me today. Please feel free to join me again some time.”

A skinny young man in a light blue polo with a shaved head and a pleasant smile stepped up next to Susan.

“This is Eric,” she told them as a way of introduction, “he’ll be conducting you through the next section of the tour. Enjoy.” She waved as Eric corraled them through the next set of doors. “As you heard,” he was saying. “My name is Eric. I’ll be conducting you through the paleolithic era. Now if you have any questions...” His voice trailed off as the group disappeared behind the closing doors.

Susan yawned as Mr. Eldenbar prowled up into her personal space once more. “Ms. Torson,” he whispered in an urgently annoyed voice that was tired of being ignored. “How many times must I remind you that the Hall of Paintings section of the tour is supposed to last twenty minutes?” He held up a silver pocket watch on a gold chain. It had bronze clockwork hands and Roman numerals on its face. “Not forty-five.” He spat at her sending some of the dead ashes from his hanging cigar to land on her shirt.

“Sorry, Mr. Eldenbar it’s just not that easy, you know.” She tried to make him understand brushing the ashes off her shirt.

“I don’t pay you to do an easy job, Ms. Torson,” he inflected her name into a threat that silenced any other objections. “Your job is to move my patrons through the Hall of Paintings in twenty minutes. The next time, the very next time, it’s brought to my attention that you’ve been lingering in the Van Gogh...” He pointed dangerously at the exit door. “Got it?” He growled.

“Yes, Mr. Eldenbar,” she nodded. “I’ve another group now.”

“Good,” he glared at her over his half rim glasses. “Twenty minutes Ms. Torson. Or else.” She hurried off to greet the next tour group as they assembled.

“Hello,” she greeted them. “My name is Susan and I’ll be leading you through our fully immersive Hall of Paintings today.” She smiled pleasantly at the group as she led them into the white hall.