Louis was never really here

Louis crept through the remains of the bombed-out church, that had once been St Lukes Anglican parish until the blitz of 1941. The dropped bombs caused huge fire damage that swept through the whole place causing the roof to cave in. For over sixty years it lay derelict until it was reopened to the public. Now it was a place of free expression. Poetry, movies and singing events were held in the shell of its sandstone nave. Today, despite it being a hot Thursday afternoon the place was empty except for one person, exactly as Louis knew it would be. He had followed the furtive street artist simply known as “Crispin” for years now. His nationwide stunts having inspired both praise and outrage from the British public. Most recently he and his group “fleeting detritus” launched their graffiti campaign “We are watching big brother.” Hundreds of large eyes of every colour and description, thirty feet tall all stared down ominously at morning commuters all over London.

Louis had a hunch where he would be next. Crispin had no social media of any kind, preferring instead for others to capture and share his work. Art critics and celebrities alike had offered thousands for him to auction off pieces or design album covers. He had refused every one of them. Some of the celebrities making the offers he later mocked in his signature stencils. Much like Crispin, Louis also hated social media. Everyone from the young student to the art society elite trawled online message boards for any hint as to where Crispin may spray his next masterpiece, Louis knew a true revolutionary artist wouldn’t be able to resist a place like this. A once pious display of religious oppression now a hub of radical idea sharing would simply be too tempting.

He had come by once a day for more than three weeks. Having recently graduated, his job hunt was going nowhere, not that he much cared. He wanted to be an artist, his father wanted him to be a success. So, the compromise was going to university to study graphic design.

The only person he craved the approval of was right there in front of him, shaking out the last bit of mist from the hot pink spray can. Once finished the young man threw it away before digging into his pack for a fresh one. Making sure to give it a hard shake before spraying over the large cardboard stencil. One side was finished, Louis could see it was of a young man with spiky black hair much like the artist, the other blocked from view by the man himself.

Louis didn’t know what to do, what was happening was highly illegal. What if he just said “Hello?” Would Crispin freak out and run away? Maybe he’d think he was a cop, he was dressed in his one and only job-hunting suit. Maybe he could offer to take a picture? That was stupid, Crispin himself didn’t do that. A true artist leaves his work for the people to discover. He didn’t want him to think he was just another art shill trying to jump on the hype train.

“Afternoon Louis, like what I’ve done with the place?” The black-haired youth turned around to greet him. Louis was stunned, this had to be Crispin he was certain now and he had just called him by his name.

“Err, yeah its sublime.” Luis answered.

Sublime? You moron. The youth smiled at the clumsy complement, wiping his hands down on his black and red striped jumper. He peeled away the stencilling and stepped aside to reveal his completed work. The picture was of Himself and Louis stood side by side, their arms over each other’s shoulders. Louis brain went into overdrive as Crispin shook his spray can and tossed it to him. Louis just about managed to snatch the can before it clattered to the ground holding it against his chest.

“Thought of a quote?” He asked.

“Are you who I think you are?” Louis asked.

Crispin simply shrugged his shoulders, gesturing to the bare stone under his latest creation. Louis walked toward it, slowly shaking the can whilst his mind hopped from one cliché to another. He settled on one he thought wasn’t completely stupid and sprayed, in jet black letters of differing sizes and proportions.

“Louis was never really here.”

Once his quote was finished, he looked back to Crispin.

“How do you know my name? Or what I look like?”

Crispin stared at Louis lettering with a wry smile playing across his face. For a moment he said nothing, his green eyes slipped from him to the fresh artwork. Louis told himself to be cool. To gush now would ruin everything but he had so many questions, what if this was all some joke to mock him? So, he simply waited, staring in awe of the defiant artist and hoping the police couldn’t work out who he was just from his first name.

“I just want to say you are such an inspiration…”

Crispin dug into his backpack still ignoring Louis and pulled out a pair of navy-blue coveralls, throwing one over. The logo on the right arm read Walker art gallery. Louis looked over to Crispin who was already stepping into his, flattening down the creases.

“On your website.”

“My?” Louis started.

“Your website, your stuff man it tells me how it is. The others hated it. I said you don’t know this guy’s mind. Vulnerable and absurd.”

Louis knew what he was talking about, he had started a short-lived YouTube channel that discussed street art. Three videos in total but he did leave a link to his website. A self-portrait he had done had earned him a few mixed comments. Realising nothing scared him more than people judging any of his artwork, especially his self-portrait he took it all down.

“What exactly do you want to do with these?” Louis pulled at the coveralls. He didn’t know if his light headedness was from the aerosol or just the sheer joy of hearing all this from a guy like Crispin.

“An art heist man. Middle of the day, during an exhibition. Are you in?”

Louis had no idea what kind of time an art heist would get him, nor did he think prison would be much of an environment for him to nurture his creativity. His eyes flicked to the words he had sprayed a few moments earlier. Crispin’s eyes were shining as he awaited Louis answer. Suddenly Louis felt sickly self-conscious. An image of Crispin and his group all sat round a computer dissecting his artwork, smoking and laughing at his amateurish doodles. The laughing in his head was interrupted by real laughter from Crispin himself.

“Don’t worry my guy, it’s all prearranged. The alarms are off, the staff all know about it. See it’s all about conformity. Will people sit and watch whilst two dudes in uniform walk off with a priceless work of art?” The passion in Crispin’s voice was electric. Already Louis sinking doubt was starting to disappear. Thoughts of being thrown headfirst into this underground art movement was inspiring.

“Artists are here to disturb the peace.” Louis quoted. Crispin broke into a smile and brought him in for a hug. As the two stood alone embracing in the broken church, Louis said a silent prayer.

It was less than fifteen minutes before him and Crispin had walked from the church to the Walker Gallery. The historical weight of the building bore down on them. The neoclassical columns that lined the outside made Louis think of a courthouse. He had never felt more out of his depth before. The statues of Michelangelo and Raphael stood guard at either side of the entrance. True greatness offering him little more than a cold gaze. The pair of them sat on the edge of the large black fountain just outside.

Louis had taken off his blazer before pulling on the coveralls, they were two small and with his work suit underneath too many layers for such a hot day. Crispin looked more out of place than he did, his wild spiky hair and the creative flair he wore so naturally simply looked out of place in coveralls.

“So, we just go in and take a random piece?” Louis asked.

“Ludwig’s Grazing pasture,” Crispin said. “Second from the last in the main hall.”

Louis knew the piece, eight or so sheep grazing in a meadow. Behind them tall oak trees overlooked. He did appreciate the quaint beauty of the piece; Crispin would have targeted it for some societal statement he was certain. He thought better of asking though, he needed to prove he belonged here, that he gets it. Crispin caught the cascading fountain water letting it pour through his hands before flicking a few droplets at Louis.

“What do you say?”

“Let’s do it.” Louis felt his head swim. It was lucky he took off walking to the entrance straight away, if he had stayed standing still, he might just have toppled into the fountain. Crispin seemed entirely the opposite, slinging his pack over his shoulder. He might have been a man on his way to collect a knighthood, both joyful and resolute. He pulled on a pair of blue latex gloves. When Louis looked over, he shook his head, pulled out a second pair and handed them over.

Just inside the main entrance roughly thirty people milled about, offering opinions and squinting at the small details of the art on display. Crispin was met by a security guard, a tall smiley man who greeted him like an old friend, shaking his hand warmly. The handshake lingered and Louis saw the guard had slipped something small and metal into Crispin’s hand. When Louis passed, he let out a little chuckle before clearing his throat. His radio cracked something incomprehensible, and he moved off.

Louis weaved his way through the crowd behind Crispin, offering the odd smile and nod. The smell of the floor polish brought on a headache. It was lucky he hadn’t eaten anything else, or he could well have thrown up. Inside the main hall navy blue paint was barely visible under all the artwork. His coveralls, the exact same colour felt as if it did the opposite. Visitors eyed him as if he was there to interrupt their day at the gallery, which he remembered he was. Crispin slung down his pack just below “Grazing pasture,” Louis was so close he could see the brush strokes.

“Ok folks, back up please just a quick removal.” Crispin said, waving his hands in a back away gesture. The people around didn’t seem to pay him any mind, simply turning their attention to the myriad of other artwork. Louis caught Crispin’s arm.

“Aren’t these things alarmed?”

Louis had seen his fair share of heist movies. It was at this point, usually in the dead of the night that they would take the picture off the wall, only to trigger a blearing alarm. Crispin let out a dismissive laugh.

“I told you my dude, it’s all taken care of.”

He took hold of the frame, giving it a sharp tug, but the picture didn’t budge. Louis heart pounded his ribcage, so hard he was certain people could hear it. This is an art gallery, not some hotel art hanging on a nail and string, what the hell was Crispin doing? Crispin shook his hands and looked around the room.

“I just need a quick distraction, do me a favour.”

Nothing about this vaguely resembled “all taken care off.” The previously jovial security guard had entered, brow creased and scanning the room. Crispin was searching in his pack. For the first time he seemed anything but cool.

“Come on man, thirty seconds is all I need.”

Louis dug a hand into Crispin’s bag and pulled out a spray can, popping off the lid. He then turned and began to walk. Crispin gave him an admiring nod and turned back to the painting. As he made his way across the room a few people noticed the can in his hand, nudging their friends and family. A small girl no older than eight pointed at the spray can.

“What has he got?” She asked. Her mum turned then shot a glance to the security guard. With his index finger poised over the can’s nozzle Louis could hear the small metal balls rattling inside. With his arm vibrating he held the can up to the largest picture in the entire room.

“What the hell are you doing? Security!” The mother of the young girl shouted. Louis turned his head, everyone in the gallery had gathered around him. Sweat stung his eyes, the tiny metal can felt heavier than a ships anchor.

“Is someone going to grab him?” And old man said.

The security guard pushed his way through the crowd and approached him with his hands up.

“Sir please, step away from the painting.” His voice was calm, but his eyes screamed what the hell are you doing? Louis turned toward the crowd, directing the can at his own coveralls. He pressed the nozzle down. With a loud hiss black spray paint hit him in the chest, forming a large, dripping black stain. Everyone in the crowd looked confused.

“Why did you do that?” Someone from the crowd asked.

“Err, sorry it was like a protest. Sorry guys.”

The security guard reached out his hand and Louis gave up the can, rather relieved to be rid of it.

“What were you thinking, trying to destroy artwork like that?” The mother of the young girl asked.

“No, I wouldn’t.” Louis started. The crowd was starting to shift from confused too angry.

From the ceiling a bright spotlight flared into life, it’s powerful beam directed at where he had left Crispin. There was a painting there, from the other side of the room Louis couldn’t make out what it was, only that it wasn’t grazing pasture. A few of the crowd members stunned by the dazzling light, broke away to inspect the now lit-up picture. Louis thanked all that was good in the world for the distraction, eyes were off him that’s all that mattered now. A few turned to more until it was just him standing opposite the security guard.

“What did Crispin see in you?” He asked shaking his head and walking away.

Does this mean he’d done it? Was he just free to leave? The would-be angry mob had now gathered around the new painting. It looked to Louis like they were even angrier at that. His exit was clear; he could have slipped out of the main entrance or have cartwheeled out for all anyone seemed to notice. All the attention was focused on the opposite side of the room. He knew he couldn’t wait for the social media posts, he decided he had to know now.

He crossed the room feeling drunk. As he got closer members of the crowd turned and scrutinised his face. He put on his best appeasing smile, which seemed to only make them madder.

“Want to explain?” The mother asked him, leaning on her buggy. She parted along with the others giving him a clear view at what Crispin had left behind. It was Louis own self portrait. Underneath on a little brass plaque read.

“Louis was never really here.”

THE END