A Study in Singularity

Wide amber brown eyes, a prominent hawk nose, the slightest quirk to the lips, a face angled downward to the left, and crowned by a braided bun of silvered chestnut hair. She wears a ruffled, off-white Victorian-era blouse with a high collar, pinned with an emerald brooch. A matching earring dangles from her visible lobe, and a single strand of hair has escaped its plaiting to gracefully curl below the gem. Sitting at a wooden writing table, in front of a nebulous, blue and gray background, she ponders the blank paper before her without ever picking up the fountain pen.

All gallery employees have their favorites, and “Portrait of an Unknown Woman" by "Unattributed” is mine. I detour to walk past her every morning on the way to my shared office. Every day, her expression strikes me differently. Some mornings the quirk of her lips is bemused; some mornings it’s cynical, or mournful, or resigned. Once it even struck me as hungry, like the smirk of a cat about to eat the canary. The implied sheen over her eyes seems tearful at times, other times jovial, bored, or defiant.

Our file on her is mind-bogglingly vague; just a few faded notes on a single slip of paper. None of us can even make out the handwriting. The janitor told me she's been hanging in that exact spot on the wall since before he was hired, and he's been cleaning the gallery for the last twenty years.

Every time there's a new exhibition, we talk about moving her, either into storage or at least to a more out-of-the-way place. But there she stays. It's uncanny, really—borderline spooky even.

Paxton swears he almost took her down before the last show, but that the second his hand touched her frame, he got this awful feeling, like he was committing some horrible faux pas. He says it was like getting caught trying to sneak a peek under Her Majesty's hairpiece (he's gay, British, and a tad obsessed with the late Queen Elizabeth). Now, he refuses to go near the portrait in case she's, quote, "still displeased" with him. We've been teasing poor Pax about it—gently since we're all friends here. Frankly, I'm pretty sure each staff member has had one run-in with the "Unknown Woman." It makes the rest of them more sympathetic to Paxton's apprehensions.

My private thoughts on the topic are: Good for her! Pax can take that attempted eviction and shove it! Though I recognize that puts me squarely in the minority. They'd all get rid of her if they could.

I can’t fully explain why I’m so drawn to this particular portrait; she's so out of sync with the rest of our gallery’s more modern vibe and even my own personal aesthetic.

Or maybe that’s just it. She doesn’t fit in. She's an antique rebel, refusing to conform to all the neo-aggressiveness, in-your-face edginess, and “look at me, I’m making a statement, I mean something” commotion dominating the space around her. While her peers clamor for attention, she just sits there, silently contemplating the letter she’s about to write, or not write, unswayed by the shouts and demands of the latest social movement.

Not to say that social movements aren’t valid, but I think I envy her that quiet self-assurance. The world may have labeled her just another "unknown woman," but she knows exactly who she is—which is more than a lot of us can say. She's weirdly captivating—most people would take one look at that nose of hers and think, "Thank heaven and all that is holy for rhinoplasty!"—and yet, somehow, it's her unabashed unprettiness that makes her all the more alluring.

I wish I had that kind of confidence; it'd save me a fortune on makeup.

There’s prep for a new exhibition underway. It's going to be a solo show for an up-and-coming artist who would never let anyone put a question mark on their name placard. Quite the contrary, they slash their moniker boldly across their creations to the delight of all the avant-garde critics who applaud and declare, “Yes! This person owns their art! They inhabit it! See how they symbolically emblazon their signature in neon colors over the unflinching imagery as a commentary on voyeuristic consumerism!” Avant-garde art critics love talking like that.

These days even the “anonymous” artists wield their so-called anonymity with all the subtlety of toddlers clanging away on metal pots, drumming up views on social media. And I get it. If you want to be commercially successful in this profession, you’ve got to have access to some next-level publicity skills; artistic talent alone won’t cut it. Don't believe me? Just look at how many of the historical greats didn’t achieve fame until after they died.

One more reason to like the portrait—someone back in the day slipped her in here and stuck it to the system. Sure, she might not be famous per se, but among the gallery staff, she is infamous.

Today Neon Name is coming to oversee the setup for their show, and we’re all hustling to get everything ready: fresh white paint on the walls (we don’t dare take her down even for this, just carefully cut in around her plain wood frame), followed by light checks and sound checks, as well as dust mopping the floor what feels like fifty billion times. When they strut through the door an hour early with agent and sponsor in tow, I know it’s going to be one of those days.

They sneer at the dust mop propped in the corner—a dust mop that they have to know would’ve been put away if they’d come at the arranged time—and the tour begins.

Anyone who's hung around professional artists knows that, as a general rule, they are a nitpicky bunch. They've invested a lot of time and energy into honing their craft, so it's only natural for them to want their work displayed to the best effect possible. But this one is something else: These lights are too bright. Those lights are too dim. And they are all in the wrong places. This section of the wall is too stark. That patch should be whiter. The electrical sockets are too visible, but there aren’t enough of them to meet their needs. Why doesn't the flooring make more of a statement? There needs to be a more dynamic atmosphere. The sound system isn’t up to snuff. The ceiling doesn’t reflect their overall vision.

And then they notice her. 

“What is that doing there?"

Paxton tries to explain. Deirdre tries to explain. Skye, Theo, and Lonnie all try to explain. Not me; I just stand off to the side and keep my mouth shut.

The “Unknown Woman” has that cat-about-to-eat-the-canary smirk again.

Neon Name raises their hand. 

C'mon, I think. Do it! I dare you!

They reach toward the painting.

Bring it on, twerp!

They slide their fingers between the frame and wall. 

She doesn’t so much as lift her fountain pen.

There's this electric pause—just a fraction of a fraction of a second—where nobody moves so much as a single muscle. Then the artist's hand drops away from the frame, and they double over, face pale and cheeks bulging. Everyone except for me steps forward, concerned, and gets their shoes splattered in barf. I glance at the portrait, but she’s already gone back to thinking about writing her letter.

Neon Name is a bit humbler after that, more willing to compromise. They even thank us, reluctantly, for all the effort we’re putting in. A week later the show opens without a hitch.

Monitoring my section of the gallery, I notice more than one guest scratching their head, trying to suss out the larger meaning behind displaying “Portrait of an Unknown Woman” by “Unattributed” amid the lurid “commentary on voyeuristic consumerism." No doubt Neon Name's publicist will spin it into an intentional expression of poetic irony, or something. The critics will applaud again, and we'll get a request to loan her out so she can continue to serve as a brilliant counterpoint when the show moves on to a more prestigious venue. And who knows? Maybe she'll decide this is her moment, her chance to shine in her new role of juxtaposed masterpiece. But looking at her face—still contemplating that unwritten letter, blatantly ignoring all the hoopla going on around her—I doubt it.