Woman Who Strikes Many

I had sat down in front of my favorite painting, Ah'-kay-ee-pix-en, Woman Who Strikes Many, 1832, a young indigenous woman I could swear was trying to tell me something momentous, something earth-shattering. This was something I did with some regularity.

The painting’s simplistic, flat style combined with details like the fringe of her robe and the texture of the pelt over her shoulder combined to bring a sense of immediacy and presence. She looked off to the right of the viewer, as though watching something in the distance.

I spent long hours imagining what she saw, what she wanted to say. At some point during the afternoon there was a commotion in the gallery, but I ignored it and tried to put myself in the artist’s place, standing by Ah'-kay-ee-pix-en, waiting for her to speak.

My focus was pulled out of the painting when the overhead lights dimmed, then shut off. In the glow of the EXIT sign and the dim emergency lighting, she looked more substantial, as though she were coming out of the canvas.

I stood, stiff after sitting for so long. If the power had gone out, there must be guards around somewhere. Determined to find one, I walked back through the galleries to the area by the gift shop.

The gate in front of the gift shop was down and locked. The clock on the wall showed it was half-past eight. Somehow, they’d closed the museum around me, an hour and a half prior. I wondered how they could have missed me, a regular patron in my regular spot.

There was nothing to be done for it, except to wait for the arrival of police and security. I was certain I’d passed through more than one motion detector. It might be confusing at first, but once the surveillance video was viewed it would be clear that my presence after hours was accidental.

With nothing else to trouble me for the moment, I went back to my spot. I sat down in front of Ah'-kay-ee-pix-en and marveled at how alive she felt in this light.

“You should always be displayed like this,” I said to her. “I’ve never seen you more alive.”

While part of me felt silly talking to a painting, another part of me didn’t care. “With no one else here, I can talk to you. I’m Joseph. It’s been a great pleasure of mine for years to sit here watching you, waiting to hear what you have to say, for you to divulge your great secret.”

“Nice to meet you, Joseph.”

I spun around to source of the voice, convinced a guard had found me while doing her rounds. A flood of relief tinged with embarrassment at having been caught talking to a painting washed over me. “Oh, thank god! I thought I’d been in here all night.”

“Already trying to leave?”

The woman that stepped into the light from the EXIT sign wasn’t a guard. She was far older, but I couldn’t help but recognize the woman I’d studied frozen in one moment for so long. “Yo—you’re….”

“Ah'-kay-ee-pix-en. Yes.”

“But, how?”

She sat next to me on the bench. “I’ve always been here, waiting, watching.”

“You’re not real. I’ve either lost my marbles, or I’m talking to a ghost…which means I’ve lost my marbles.” I squeezed my eyes shut and rubbed them until spots showed up in my vision when I reopened them. She was still there, and I felt it when she punched me in the arm.

“If you can’t talk to me like the friend I thought you were, you can leave and never come back.” The fire behind her eyes stopped me from saying anything that would make the situation worse.

“I’m sorry, Ah'-kay-ee-pix-en.” I tried to pronounce her name exactly the way she had, but it still wasn’t quite right. I rubbed my arm where she’d hit me, trying to dispel the thought that it was already bruising.

“Accepted.” She smiled a half smile with a hint of mischief. “You think I have some great secret to reveal?”

“It’s the feeling I get from the painting.”

“That would be George you’re getting that from, not me. I can tell you exactly what I was thinking.” She stood and mirrored the pose from the painting. “I wish this white man would hurry up and finish and give me the two bits he promised.”

I couldn’t help but laugh, both at the way she delivered the line, and at myself for reading too much into things. “I’m an idiot,” I said. “I think, because I love this painting, I tried to find something deeper in it.”

She sat back down next to me. “It’s acceptable to love a piece of art for no other reason than you do. There’s no requirement that art is deep or meaningful. It’s like the sky; it’s there whether you look or not, and it doesn’t have to mean anything.”

“I might have known that when I was younger,” I admitted, “but somewhere along the way, I let myself get wrapped up in being serious. I guess I didn’t want to think about all the hours of my life I’ve wasted just staring at things I like.”

“Is time really wasted if you spent it feeling joy?” she asked.

“That’s a good question.” We sat in silence for a while, looking at her younger self in the painting.

“Before they open, I’d like to show you something I enjoy,” she said, standing up and offering a hand.

I took her hand and stood. “By all means, lead on, ma’am.”

We walked through the silent galleries to stop in front of a sculpture. It was abstract, looking like a marble donut somehow warped beyond three dimensions. She ran her fingers along the flowing lines of polished stone. “You need to feel it.”

I looked around, wondering if this would get me in trouble, and then decided to follow her example. The marble was cool and smooth with no sharp edges or corners anywhere. “I understand why you like this so much.” I closed my eyes and let my fingers follow the contours that seemed to twist and turn with no rhyme or reason until my hand met hers.

I opened my eyes as she squeezed my hand. “The museum is opening soon. If you want to go, I understand, but I would very much like to see you again tonight.”

The overhead lights came on and I jumped back from the statue. Ah'-kay-ee-pix-en was nowhere to be found. I followed the sounds of voices to the gallery where her picture hung. A news crew was setting up in the gallery. The lead docent, two guards, and the president of the museum were in attendance.

I tried to get the attention of the guards, but they seemed preoccupied with what was going on. They were setting up a camera pointing at my usual spot, then rotating it around to point at Ah'-kay-ee-pix-en. Once they were satisfied, the reporter began.

“This is the spot where next Tuesday a memorial service will be held, and a plaque honoring the life-time member Joseph P. O’Cannon, will be placed on this bench. Joseph sat here almost every day for the last thirty-six years. Yesterday, he was here, in his favorite spot, when he fell unconscious and passed away.”

The camera pointed at Valery, the docent. “Joe was here pretty much any time we were open. He had a lifetime membership and continued to donate every year, going above and beyond. This piece, Ah'-kay-ee-pix-en, Woman Who Strikes Many, 1832, by George Catlin, was his favorite. I’d see him study this piece for hours on end. He used to tell me, ‘She has something to say, I just haven’t figured out what yet.’”

A tear rolled down her cheek. “We’ll all miss him, but I’m grateful he was here, not in a cold hospital room somewhere.”

The reporter took back the mic. “Mr. O’Cannon would have been eighty-nine next Tuesday, the day the museum will dedicate this bench to his memory.”

I watched the crew pack up the camera and equipment, after which the guards escorted them out. Valery sat in my spot and cried, and the president, Tom, stood behind her and patted her shoulder.

I couldn’t see Ah'-kay-ee-pix-en but I knew she was close. What I could see was a door that didn’t belong, in the center of the gallery. It had to lead on to whatever comes next.

I decided, for the day, that I’d wait until closing and talk to Ah'-kay-ee-pix-en some more. Maybe she really doesn’t have anything to teach me, but I might learn something anyway.