Art Must Have A Meaning

The sun burned down with an intensity that felt like cruel intentions. The grass stood as still as the statues, and the statues as sturdy as the great trees whose boughs hung calmer still so as to not disturb the shade that hid beneath them. Yet what the scene lacked in movement it made up for in glory and richness of scent and colour; surrounding the lawn, flowers of all shades shone as if seen in a fresh photograph, perfuming the hot air as the sun drew out their fragrances the way burning oil blends spices. In the centre, as pretty as little trees blessed with full blossom, a set of paintings sat perched on wooden posts planted proudly by their young artist. Her compositions displayed careful horizontal brushstrokes that by her budding tastes had been placed to perfection; lines that she had loaded with meaning as if bled from her heart. Standing back, she wiped the sweat from her brow and took her place on the little platform from which she would introduce her precious pieces to an audience for the first time.

“Sofia!” he beamed.

“Christophe, hi!”

“I’m so, so sorry that we couldn’t fit you inside.” The apology came out sweetly, sincerely. “It’s just that we’d already organised for –”

“It’s fine! This is gorgeous, and it’s wonderful to see my artworks as part of such a beautiful scene”.

“Certainly! The garden really brings out something in them – it’s like this place was simply made to serve as a backdrop for your work!”

“Oh, don’t be silly!” she blushed with genuine delight.

“Of course! One must think of the surroundings as part of the artworks themselves, as good a frame as any, and this space makes a wonderful frame for yours. Just look at how that painting glows in front of the lavender. And that one over there – the lines on it stand out even more against the ivy climbing the wall behind it. And this one by the statue – wonderful choice! A dark old room in the house could never have achieved this, yet it seems to be exactly what your paintings deserve! It’s all so marvellous to look at!”

“They are meant to disturb!” she laughed, blushing. “But I appreciate your comments, and again thank you so much for supporting me!”

“Of course! Anyway, I’ll leave you to it! Do shout if you need an extra hand. The guests have already begun to arrive and are looking around the house, but they’ll be out here soon.”

As she watched guests emerge from the cool comfort of the house, she could see their faces contort with the sudden shock of the heat. To counter this, she herself beamed a smile to rival the sun, hoping it would be contagious. And while it had first been met with polite smiles, as people laced through her display their faces became creased and crumpled. Perhaps from the brightness, or perhaps from curiosity? Voices that had, inside the house, sounded excited and eager, had outside softened, as if to save precious energy and to reduce sweating. Or perhaps the heat was just muting them. In any case, this had not been the scene as she’d imagined it, yet she was careful not to betray her initial disappointment.

“Have you remembered to drink, dear?” Christophe’s familiar voice sounded beside her as he joined her above the crowd, jerking her from her hazy deliberations. He held out a fresh glass of lemonade. “You’re up in a moment. Smile, and try not to look so nervous – everything is going to be fine!” he added, before ringing a bell that brought the scene to silence.

“Thank you all for being here” his voice boomed, immediately drawing everyone’s attention. While it certainly carried across the garden, it had a gentleness to it that was met with kind applause from the crowd. “Thank you. For our final showing this morning, let’s finally give a warm welcome to a former student of mine, Sofia!”

The clapping continued.

 “I’ve seen her grow and progress marvellously, and I felt it was time for her first exhibition, and what better place for it could there be?”

The clapping tapered off as Christophe stepped away to be replaced by Sofia in the centre of the platform.

“Thank you everyone. And thank you for putting up with this dreadful heat! I appreciate you all being here.” Her voice sounded weak and hollow by comparison, and realising this, the words of the opening she’d planned disintegrated.

“So, I’d like to talk to you about my paintings. They were inspired by…”

…as she went on, she could see people looking from her to her surrounding artworks, then muttering to the person next to them…

“… represent how I feel about this issue which is so important to be aware of right now. It is a cause close to my heart, and…”

…she looked around as she spoke, noticing crumpled faces, wrinkled and frowned…  

“…horizontal lines of varying thicknesses, one on top of the other, to effectively show how…”

…the air was growing more unbearable, the crowd looking around as if each person was afraid to miss the sight of the first person to faint…

“… and certainly, you are encouraged to think of…”

…now paralysed by the heat, the only thing distinguishing the people from the statues was their dripping sweat they’d become too lazy to brush away…

“… because really it is so important that this understood. After all, art must send a message. As I said, the fact that the lines sit horizontally, not exactly parallel yet not quite touching, can evoke in the viewer…”

Dong. A bell chimed, interrupting her from her speech and the crowd from their stupor, most of whom squinted up towards the grand building, tracing its gorgeous façade up to the clocktower from which the chime had resounded.

“Can evoke that–”

Dong. A second interruption. The hands of the clockface pointed skywards, hailing the sun that was now reaching its highest and most penetrating point, rays that forced their way into focus and held attention at ransom. The chimes became more than a mere marking of time, each one intensifying the pause in which her words echoed in the minds of the viewers, and during which she found herself distractedly and quite maniacally reflecting on that. While coming from her heart, she knew that her speech was coming out dry and dampened, as if the absence of breeze was in fact an absence of air and she was preaching across a vacuum. The contortion on faces that she had at first attributed to the brightness now seemed more likely to be curiosity or confusion.

Dong. Once the final chime had sounded, people stood expecting another, as if caught in a hypnotic loop. Yet instead, what broke the paralysed atmosphere was not a chime, but a loud ‘ahem’ followed by a raised arm as pointed as the clock hands. She hadn’t expected to receive any questions. She hadn’t thought she’d finished, either, but of that she wasn’t quite sure. Short of knowing what to do, she smiled and raised her eyebrows in an open, inviting gesture.

“It didn’t evoke that in me, I’m afraid. In fact, your paintings seem so abstract and random that I find” – he swiftly and aggressively swatted at an insect – “I find little to appreciate in them at all”.

“Well, I –”

“Who are you to comment?” A sudden, sharp interjection came from another member of the crowd. “How utterly rude and inappropriate”.

Yet, faces appeared curious, expectant, as if they were more in agreement with her interrogator and hadn’t heard the counter from her saviour. 

“Well”, she stammered, “well, the abstraction is part of… part of the effect, because really the topic is… the topic really is quite abstracted from many people’s lives, and the extent of its abstraction is really meant to… People need to think more about the abstract because… Art is meant to make people think, and when I started these paintings I had intended to, well…”

For Sofia, who had been nervous but had never expected to face such resistance, the scene had taken on a new appearance, worsened dramatically by the heat that was scorching her to delirium. The sun beamed like a lamp above an operating table, scrutinous faces poised before her works like scalpels waiting to put her ego through invasive surgery.  

“But these paintings don’t make me think about the issues you are referring to. How can I relate your message to these paintings without your explanation?” his words cut through the vacuum without any difficulty. “I mean, it’s like you’ve used words to bridge a gap instead of –”

“Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen” Christophe had emerged from the dark doorway of the house. “While we do encourage dialogue and feedback, I’m not sure this oven is quite the place” he chuckled. “Refreshments have just been served inside, and we kindly invite…”

Relieved at last, the crowd quickly departed, shuffling and bustling to end the strange, hot stagnation. As some left, they smiled at her, while others just passed hurriedly, desperate to reach the cool. She was alone once again, her and her paintings, as if there had never been anyone else around. Just her heart on display, with gorgeous, colourful surroundings. It was a beautiful scene in itself, as worthy of artistic preservation as any other.

Christophe approached her. “Come in, take a seat and have another glass of lemonade. I made it myself! Have a little rest here.” He led her into a cool, shady room, sat her on a grand, puffy sofa and placed a velvet cushion on one side, motioning her to place her head on it. “Have a little rest. I’ll come and check up on you in a little while”. As soon as he had left, she began to sob heavy, dripping tears that even the piercing sun couldn’t have dried.

She was dozing, but lightly enough to notice him gently taking a seat beside her. The atmosphere was calm, alive with the friendly chatter of refreshed guests chatting away in other rooms.

“This place is gorgeous” she said admiringly, sitting up and looking around. “The artwork, décor, engravings, the statues, oh and all the flowers in the garden… Did you plan it all yourself?”

“Of course not!” He chuckled, “but I’m flattered you’d think that. I suppose I did plant some of the flowers myself, and I did also paint a few of the artworks, but that was a long time ago”.

She glanced around the room, then saw him nodding at a large piece that hung impressively above them.

“Really?! It’s magnificent, I mean, it just really shows… just, wow!”

“Yes, this one is okay – one of the few I’m happy to display, though I don’t often like to mention it. Only sometimes,” he added with a trusting smile.

“It’s wonderful! It’s just…” as words left her she continued to admire it. “But” - she went on curiously - “why have you used colour for this part, but left this part without? What does it mean?”

“Well, meaning is–”

“Sir”, an assistant broke their conversation suddenly. “Someone has just requested to­–”

“I’m coming” he replied. “I’ll be back in a moment”, sharing again that trusting smile as he left her alone with her awe.

Above the sounds of people sharing pleasantly in the other rooms, she noticed more muffled, yet harsher sounds, coming from outside. Opening the window and peering down, among her artworks she saw a man and two women engaged in an animated dispute in the refuge of the shade that had crept out from under the trees.

“… convey the message, then there’s no use doing it with words. I have little tolerance–”

“You have zero tolerance and that’s not the right way to encourage–”

“They don’t need encouraging, they need re-educating and–”

“Enough with the exaggeration. She is allowed to have her–”

“Of course she’s allowed to have it, of course, of course, but that doesn’t make it worth sharing or shining a spotlight on it.”

“Well…”

“Well, if visual art cannot communicate a message visually, then it is not the art that is doing the expressing. And great art does not require any additional explanation, extrapolation or excuses. Could you imagine–”

“I’m sorry” an assistant broke the flow, “but we are about to close the garden now.”

“Yes, yes, certainly!” they replied with immediate charm, leaving the shade in peace.  

“Still wondering about my choice of colour?” Christophe reappeared and joined her by the window.

“Actually, was wondering whether you heard what that person said to me outside.”

“I didn’t, no. But someone did recount me a little of what was said, and I’m sorry you were put on the spot like that. We don’t expect that here, but I think today everyone was a little hot and bothered, and really, we should have found a space for you inside, it’s just that the other rooms had already been set up for–”

“It’s fine, you don’t need to make excuses for them, it’s not your fault. But - what do you think?”

“Well, I think today the heat has–”

“I mean what do you think about my artwork? Do you agree that it’s not worthy of–”

“If I didn’t think it was wonderful, would I really display it here?”

“That’s not an answer”.

“I don’t bring people here to judge the–”

“You’re still not answering my question” She spoke softly, but in her voice was a sharp desperation that he could not ignore. The soft shade of the room had suddenly been pierced; lower now, the sunlight had found its way in, cutting through the window like a laser, it’s sharp glow alone enough to remind them of the sweltering warmth outside. She looked back at him, expectantly. He took his place on the sofa again, and motioned for her to join him.

“This place – my home – that you have so kindly praised; how long do you think it has taken to get like this?”

“Oh, years. So much work and dedication and skill…”

“Right, years. Decades of them. More than I’ve been around for - and that’s saying something! And how many people do you think have been involved? The carved statues, pristine lawn” he went on. “How many masters of their craft–”

“Well, who knows? Countless!”

“Right”

“You’re still not answering my–”

“Excuse me, sir” his assistant appeared once more. “There is another–”

“Yes, certainly I’ll be right there”.

He left, then a moment later popped his head back around the door. “I’m sorry, dear, but there’s something I need to sort out upstairs. Please, stay and rest as long as you like. Also, don’t worry about taking away your paintings today in this dreadful heat. They’re safe here - take them away on a cooler day. Just get someone to help you to lift them in before you go” he added with a smile. “And don’t worry about today. You’re young, and so full of potential, and I’m so excited to see you grow”. A smile broke out on her face, and as he left, she lay back down, looked up once more at his painting, and fell exhaustedly to sleep.

This time Sofia awoke in dark, shady silence. The rays that had crept in had now been extinguished, the dying light of the day submitting to the inevitable dusk, which she took as her cue to leave. Outside, the shade spread long across the lawn, no longer hiding. The grass quivered in the breeze, as if the trees were letting out a long, languorous sigh that had been burning inside them. Flower petals had shelled up, settled to a matte, neutral hue, with their fragrance replaced by the fragile scent of forming dew. The scene that had glowed kaleidoscopically now seemed muted and muzzled, left in an almost unrecognisable state of cool.

Walking up to one of her paintings, even the thought of shifting it felt heavy in her mind. As she looked at it closely, her face wrinkled with a curiosity that quickly turned to sadness. As with the flowers, the dusk had dampened its boldness, but unexpectedly some new lines had appeared; vertical streaks from melted droplets that had traced down the canvas and then palely dried. Looking around, she realised that each painting had taken on a new form; bisecting lines of blended colours, as unplanned and uninvited as the sweat that had dripped down faces, and the tears that had poured down hers. It seemed that the lines of meaning she had painted with such fierce intention had ended up crying their own tears.