The Last Man Kneeling

(*warning; Implied racism and mentions of slavery. *)

THE LAST MAN KNEELING

The man in the painting was nameless, but he knew three things for certain:

1. He was depicted kneeling on a plush red carpet, his face locked in a stern expression as he gazed into the flickering flames of a grand fireplace.

2. The artist who had brought him to life and placed him on display was known as Asher Vanderbilt, his elegant signature adorning the bottom of the canvas in golden letters.

3. And most importantly - at night, the nameless man would come alive.

It was a strange transition from being a mere observer, to being an active participant of this thing called life. To go from frigid to soft. During these times, he was able to feel the soft fur of the carpet, he felt it gain weight as it seemed to push back against him. 

He didn't know if it was a curse or not, but he found himself looking forward to those moments when he could see beyond his confined surroundings and observe the other paintings in the gallery. He noticed that while there were many vibrant and colourful paintings, he was the only figure with dark skin. 

But this fact didn't bother him too much. He wondered if it was supposed to.

Lately, the gallery had been busier than usual. He could sense it in the increase of shadows passing by during the day and the rise in noise levels. The man noticed that he saw more black members of the public. And they were particularly interested in him. The man did not know why. Trapped in his painting, the social bonds of race- the meaning of race - had not been implanted into his brain.

There was one particular woman with curly black hair and bright red lipstick who would visit him daily. She would pass by all of the other more colourful paintings and make her way straight to him. She would stand with her arms crossed and her lips pursed as she studied him. Sometimes, she would even bring a notebook and jot things down before leaving. The man couldn't help but wonder what it was about him that fascinated her so much. Perhaps she was just a big fan of Asher Vanderbilt's work and admired his creation.

As the clock struck midnight once again, the man's mind began to wonder. In moments when he felt more human and present rather than cold and empty, he often thought about his creator, Asher Vanderbilt. He couldn't help but admire the artist for drawing him into existence with such care and detail, dressed in a comfortable dark green attire against a scenic backdrop. Did the other paintings in the gallery also think about their creators? Did they long with a faint eagerness to meet them?  

The man, trapped in the painting from his very existence, had neither learnt of the concept of death which his owner had succumbed to. 

That night, the man felt an adventurous streak take over. He wanted to test the limits of this newfound "life". Could he even step out of his painting? The thought excited him. Slowly and carefully, he climbed out of his frame and onto the wooden floor. It was strange walking on solid ground rather than the familiar red carpet in his painting. As he explored the gallery at a slower pace to avoid dizziness, some of his fellow paintings looked over in curiosity. They weren't feeling as daring today, but that just meant more space for him.

All the paintings shared a similar style and taste in clothing thanks to their creators. Each one showcased figures dressed in similar attire, with lavish fabrics and intricate details. The colours were mostly muted, with deep jewel tones and dark shadows.

A sculpture stood tall and statuesque in the centre of the room, its elegant curves and sharp edges catching the faint light in all the right places. Its surface was smooth and pristine, with no visible imperfections. It didn't seem alive, fortunately. Its imposing presence made the man slightly uneasy.

He continued his self-guided tour of the gallery, venturing further than he ever had before. As he observed every corner of the room, one fact became clear - he was the only dark face in the whole gallery. He wondered again if he should perhaps feel something about this and paused. Well…he should feel unique. Yes. Asher Vanderbilt had uniquely created him in this overwhelming sea of pale faces. His creator had wanted him to stand out. No wonder, he captured attention from visitors. 

Speaking of Asher Vanderbilt – his creator had quite a few pieces around the place including one titled "The Golden Girl". It  featured a blonde woman sitting in a cosy home with a tray of tea and biscuits in front of her. The man found himself smiling at this. His creator was clearly very talented. In the back of his mind, he wondered faintly why he himself had been painted with a frown, rather than a smile like this woman. It would be more comfortable for his face if he didn’t have to frown all the time. But never mind that – at least he could smile now. 

He was about to move on to the next painting when he spotted it;  a name. The name of the woman in the picture; Gilda Mason.

So, people in paintings could have names. 

It may not have seemed quite the ground-breaking realisation. But the man had just assumed that nobody really had names. That only the artists themselves had names. And as he walked and looked more closely, he noted that it wasn’t just Gilda that had a name. Everyone else had a name too. Annabelle. Fitzpatrick. Lisa. Benedict. Name after name, an overload of them. 

Only in that moment, did the man come to realise how important a name could be. And this was when he decided to rush back to re-examine his own painting. He must have missed it all those times before. Asher Vanderbilt seemed a very talented and respected artist – he must have given him a name. The man just needed to look harder. Yes. That is exactly what he would do. 

He walked as fast as he could without getting dizzy; he rounded the corner and found himself in the familiar room gallery he had become accustomed to. His painting looked strange without him in it; a  space on the red carpet right where he should be kneeling.H

He peered at the bottom of the frame and saw Asher Vanderbilt's name followed by a description: "A slave playing dress up, 1748."

The man read this sentence over and over, as if trying to decode some hidden meaning; some hidden name between the vague description of ‘a slave.’ Had Asher Vanderbilt really forgotten his name? Or maybe the word ‘slave’ was enough. The man frowned a little. He had really wanted a name. And he wasn’t too sure what a slave was. 

And playing dress up? He glanced down at the satin material of his clothes. Did they not belong to him? Was he borrowing it from someone? And if so, when was he going to give them back?

Lost in thought, he remembered seeing security guards handing out leaflets near the entrance of the gallery. He grabbed one and hoped it would provide some useful information about himself and his circumstances.

Welcome to the main art gallery of West Virginia! We're thrilled that you've decided to visit.

The words oozed with excitement as the man skimmed through the brochure. He flipped through a few pages showcasing various paintings and sculptures before coming across something more intriguing. It was a picture of that same black woman, someone he had seen frequently at the gallery in the past month. However, in this particular photo, her expression seemed harsher, almost menacing. It was not the most flattering image to choose.

The writing on that particular page - page 5 - was titled ‘’The Issue of The Civil Rights Movement and how it pertains to this art gallery.’’ 

An article by Steve Crowner, dated 18th June 1963.

It caught the man’s eye and he began to read;

‘You've seen it on the news. And if you haven't, then you've surely witnessed it on the streets. When I first opened this gallery, I never imagined it would become a platform for political debates. But somehow, politics has found its way here. Ada Wells, pictured below, has made sure of that. I welcome everyone into my gallery - I don't believe in segregation. So I allowed Ada, a journalist, to come to me seeking entry out of pure kindness. Little did I know she would use her visit as an opportunity to defame my name in the local newspapers because of one painting displayed here. The piece by Asher Vanderbilt from 1748 was one of his last works. His personal beliefs about race are not my concern. This is the danger with certain movements; they seek to destroy everything that came before them. This gallery stands with Vanderbilt and that's final’

Steve Crowner's words left the man feeling overwhelmed and confused. He may not have fully understood every word, but there was definitely a heated debate about Vanderbilt's character happening beneath the surface. And that confusion itself was perplexing to him. After all, Vanderbilt was the creator of this man. He must have been a good person, right?

The man felt a sudden urge to learn more, but the rest of the brochure seemed quite plain in comparison. 

Although the biblical reference would go over his head, the man had taken a small bite from the tree of knowledge; and now there was a small crack in his worldview.

As he climbed back into his painting, he felt a little less proud, a little more muddled. He had climbed back in the same way as he had left it; nameless, but with a few more questions. The clothes on his skin did not sit as they once had; they lingered instead. And God knew there was a difference. If they could, they would make his skin itch. And that frown which had been painted onto his face was now very much a real one. The furrow between his brows deepened as he gazed back at the flickering flames in the fireplace.

He couldn’t shake off the thoughts stirred up by the leaflet. It had been a rude awakening, one that made him question everything he thought he knew about his existence and purpose.

He had always been content to hang from this wall and be admired by passersby. But now, he couldn’t help but wonder if they would judge him based on his creator’s reputation. The quietly shattering seedling of a realisation that Vanderbilt was not as great as the man thought he was. The quietly maddening realisation that people could be multifaceted; That Vanderbilt could paint him in one breath, paint the beautiful scenery in another and yet also have another side to him.

The man found himself waiting for that black woman to come again. This time when he subtly examined her staring, he would look a bit closer. He would not mistake her semblance of neutrality for admiration. Clearly she had feelings of the opposite. 

This time when she came, he would be ready for her.

One last time; the man looked around at the paintings that covered the walls of Steve Crowner’s art gallery. There were portraits of wealthy families, landscapes of the picturesque countryside, and scenes depicting historical events. And then there was him – a portrait with no name.

The man had not known it then, but his painting had been the subject of debate locally. The Civil Rights movement had a cultural dynamic to it that was more than just legal battles. Ada B. Wells was spearheading this part of the movement. She believed it was a disgrace; if slavery was so far behind the Great Nation of the United States, then why was there still one last man kneeling?