Art Show

[short] Mar. 5th, 2017

I was almost done. My back was hurting from leaning against a tree turn all day with a canvas balanced on my knees, but at least the weather was still nice. I tilted my head to get my bangs out of my eyes and then a cool breeze assisted me; a smile curled on my lips.

I was struck by the impression of the scene: blue in grass, purple in skies, and red in trees. As I blended and applied the paint, I tapped my foot to the sound of my favourite band playing on my earphones.

Almost.

Paintbrush between my teeth, I finger-painted the cloud’s shadow a mixture of purple, grey, and blue " but it had to blend with the rest of the sky: lighter blue, pink, white, and yellow.

And for the finish " I swept and blended almost random colours into each part of the painting: yellow onto the side of one tree, some red in the sky and more blue in the grass " and might as well put some yellow too. This was when I felt the most life an artist, when I confidently applied colours that didn’t logically belong but felt right.

There.

Just in time, my phone rang.

Funny, because no one ever called nowadays. Texting had taken over just about every form of communication.

“Hello?”

“Where are you? I've texted you like ten times.”

“My back yard…”

“What?!”

“I’m getting up now.”

“Oh god…”

“Why, is everything okay?”

“Well the art show’s about to start and your table’s the only empty one.”

“Ah, yes. I won’t be long.” I checked my watch but it wasn’t there. I looked at the setting sun. “I’m coming immediately.”

Annie just sighed and hung up.

Right. I guess I forget to tell her I was already dressed.

I packed my work into two big bags and, saying goodbye to my mom, headed out.

The sky was beautiful and I enjoyed it much more knowing I didn’t have to copy it out but just appreciate it.

I poked my glasses up the bridge of my nose and, smiling, headed to fifth-ever art exhibit.

It was a repetitive process, one I didn’t really mind. I’d get invited to an art show and would have to take all my work off the walls. My mom would return from meetings with her friends and look around the living room in a puzzled manner as though unsure whether the she had entered the wrong house or was robbed before it hit her that I likely had an art exhibit.

I usually returned home late at night and would sluggishly mount the paintings again because I knew that if I didn’t do it then it probably wouldn’t get done until the following month " before which I would just glance at them curiously as I walked passed them to the kitchen, to the basement, to the front door, and many times would spend hours sitting in the same room with them but feel no desire to pick them up and attach them to the wall.

The compiled experiences had made me fairly confident this time. I knew the drill and people seemed to like my work. After all, they keep inviting me; it must have been a good thing, right?

I arrived at the location, my arms feeling thoroughly worked out in a way I wouldn’t wish for anyone. I dropped the bags against the wall and loosened out my poor limbs.

“There you are.”

I flinched and turned around.

Annie came towards me with a clipboard. “How many pieces?”

“About seven…”

“Your table’s over there.” She pointed to the far end of the room where other pieces of art seemed to be.

“Alright, thanks.”

I picked up the bags again (if I can make it up that darn hill earlier I can make it to the other side of this room). The bags were extra heavy because I also packed books " thick ones " with which to hold up some art pieces because we weren’t allowed to drill holes in the wall to hang them, and because from previous experience, the staff people didn’t provide stands.

I finished setting up and took up the entire table. It turns out I had about 10 pieces altogether: 7 paintings which I leaned against books or the wall and three sketches which I just lay flat on the table.

And… I looked at my amateurish set-up… this was as good as it was going to get.

For the rest of the day I tried to steer clear of my table so people wouldn’t feel intimidated to go and observe (I remembered how I often wanted to admire people’s art or even just browse through clothing at stores but felt rushed when someone was standing waiting for me to choose or just… waiting).

I met my friends and we talked, enjoyed some songs and cookies, and some poetry recitations. It was nice, and I expected this; the majority of the art show was for the vocal art, and then when everyone was done with sitting, they would go observe the art pieces.

Although this was not entirely the case.

Everyone spent so much time surrounding the big table at the front where a man was doing mini-sketches for them that the pre-finished art was left alone. There was a big gap in the room where the visual arts were " except " oh, yes, there was the camera man. They always hired a camera guy or woman to capture the atmosphere of the event. He went to each visual art corner and took close-up photos of the art. That is a good idea; so people can look at them later.

He seemed to have purposefully dodged my table, and when he had finished photographing every art exhibit besides mine, headed to the front for group photos. My brows furrowed in confusion.

My friend was leaving; we had such a good time taking silly photos earlier and just chatting I was sorry to see her leave but I knew she had to.

I waved to her, and spent almost the rest of that day sitting at a table with another friend as I coloured a picture in my sketchbook.

Something was missing from this day. I don’t know if my expectations were too high; whether they had a right to be that high; whether they were even high at all…

Everyone seemed to be having a good time; it was no doubt a successful event, but… at its very core there was something undeniably lacking and dismal about it all. Was this an art show or wasn’t it?

At the end, someone came around and gave me a gift card. “You’re an artist right?”

I acknowledged the notion.

“Here.”

I accepted it.

Before I knew it, the staff members were telling me to clear my work off the table; people were coming in to clean up.

I did as told and packed my bag.

My bags felt heavier. With difficulty, I showed the bus driver my bus pass, and then found a seat in the back. I looked out the window. Night had fallen and I saw my reflection in the window. I looked drained or upset; maybe that was just my face.

I hung most of the paintings up when I got home. I spent the rest of that night with a box of cake my sister had surprisingly brought home and an episode of Friends. Good show. I liked it.

I snuck into bed at a little past 2 am; read a chapter of Agatha Christie's Poirotand tried to sleep.

Maybe I had thought too highly of myself. Maybe I wasn’t sociable enough. Why did they invite me again? They could have gotten by very well without me. All my art did was loom mysteriously in the background, and myself, I was some floating spirit.

I recalled the laughing faces, the enthusiasm of some people " I couldn’t tell if they were being genuine or not; are people really like that, normally?

But no doubt, I concluded, people had a good time. It was a successful event. 

Only, why was I there?