The Show

The gallery is quiet even though there’s a decent enough crowd. Seems people’s tongues are temporarily tied as they stand in little clusters in front of the massive canvases.

A white wash from the overhead lights spills down the paintings, highlighting color schemes both vibrant and dull at the same time. The images seem both menacing and welcoming. Familiar becomes warped and strange—that probably explains the silence.

The artist is in a corner of the large space, toying with a water bottle’s cap – endlessly twisting it off and on. This is the only sign of nerves. He watches the people looking at his artwork with narrowed eyes. A slight smile curls his generous mouth.

His first show in over 5 years and it’s clear he’s in a darker space than he was when showing his last collection. This also adds to the silence. There is an expectation by the audience and the expectation hasn’t been met. Perhaps a bit like showing up to hear a country musician and having them play heavy metal.


“What is this supposed to be?” demands an elderly gentleman of the middle-aged lady beside him (probably his daughter), craning his neck to peer down through his trifocals at the painting’s label. “What’s it called?” His voice vibrates through the quiet.

“It’s numbered. It doesn’t have a name,” the lady whispers hoarsely, her cheeks deepening to the color of coral roses.

“Paintings should be named,” declares the gentleman, shaking his head. “How ridiculous to number a work of art.”

The silence spell is broken and people begin talking. Steady low murmurs roam the huge space.

The artist hears bits and pieces, his fingers still toying with the bottle top, his smile unchanged.

“I’m not sure about this one,” a woman murmurs to a friend, gazing moodily at the immense canvas labelled number 12-4. “It makes me feel...sad...” She sighs.

“I sort of like it. Sad isn’t always a bad thing, is it?” The friend tilts her head and steps back to take in more of the painting.

“But day after day? Would you want something like that affecting you every time you looked at it?”

“I don’t know...”

“It reminds me of bruises. And pain.” The woman shudders and turns away.

“Really? It reminds me of the woods before a storm.” Her friend is clearly taken with the painting.

“This is nothing like his usual work,” the woman says dismissively. “I’m getting some wine.”

Her friend, oblivious, continues staring up and taking it in.

Across the room, a young man aches to touch the surface of canvas 82-7. The thick brushstrokes, viewed up close, remind him of something and he knows if he could touch them, he’d know exactly what’s teasing the edge of his memory. His fingers clench, knuckles glowing white as he fights the urge to touch. He can’t afford the painting, but will carry the memory of it. He’s reluctant to move on to the next canvas, but a group shuffles closer and he moves on.

The artist places his water bottle on a nearby window ledge and ducks out of the main gallery. He walks down the hall, sneakers making squeaky-toy sounds on the gleaming tiles. In one of the smaller galleries he sees a pale young woman standing just inside the doorway, nervously biting her lower lip, thin fingers plucking at the hem of her gauzy white shirt. Beyond her he sees paintings in surreal colors of purple and orange and yellow with thick black lines and he’s reminded of coloring books. He continues toward the entrance where people still spill in. He ignores greetings and pushes his way out into the warm June evening, crosses the street and enters the riverside park. People walk dogs or jog or sit on the benches in the deep gold light of day’s end. Ducks and geese in-fight even as they greedily gobble crusts of bread a child tosses from a paper bag. A grandmother clicks away with a camera, trying to capture a perfect moment in time.


ktn © 2011