Published in Issue 3 (Futures) of Superlative Literary Journal.
www.youtube.com/channel/UCVqn71HgZpxxnJQcaxhzuYw/videos
www.youtube.com/channel/UCVqn71HgZpxxnJQcaxhzuYw/videos
He believed in the power of art over everything else. The snow covering the track was untouched, wending its way past a solitary house with closed shutters and beyond through fields until it was out of sight. The muted silence rang in his ears. The chillness numbed his face. Instinctively he squinted in the watery sunlight. The trees before him were bare. There was just one more thing that he thought the painting required.
***
The double doors swung open and a tall man and a lady entered the gallery, both smartly dressed, on a late lunch most likely. With a serious expression on her face, the lady studied each painting they came to. She wore a dark red coat and knee length brown boots that clicked softly on the laminate flooring. The man, who was looking down at his phone rather than at any of the artwork, was obliged to keep stopping to let her catch up. He looked annoyed about it.
The lady stopped in front of the snow scene.
“I love this one.”
“It’s my favourite too.”
They turned and the man glared down at the attendant. Then he looked at the lady and saw that she was pondering the attendant with a faint smile. Slipping his phone smoothly into the inside pocket of his coat, he spoke in a voice that boomed around the gallery.
“I did a History of Art degree.”
“Did you? I never knew.”
“Moved to law after the first year. Realised there was no money in art. No offence.”
The attendant felt an overwhelming desire to pick up his chair and swing it as hard as he could into the man’s artless and ignorant mouth. Instead, he said politely,
“Not much money, no.”
“You get to look at these paintings every day,” said the lady, glancing up at the man, her face serious again. “It can’t be so bad.”
It struck the attendant that the lady would do perfectly. He nodded. “I do get a lot of satisfaction from it, yes.”
“We should get back,” said the man, placing a hand on the small of the lady’s back.
As they were leaving, the lady said something, with a quizzical expression. The man gave a derisive snort and the lady blushed and lowered her head a little. The couple left the gallery, and the attendant went to his chair.
After a short while, the lady reappeared, alone. She came near to where the attendant was sat and stopped in front of the snow scene.
“I just wanted one more look,” she said in a quiet, determined voice.
“Be my guest.”
“It’s just so beautifully captured. I want to go there. I can almost feel the place.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” said the attendant, standing up. “That would be some escape, wouldn’t it? I think it’s to do with the way the artist has used different tones of white. Like here.” The lady stepped closer to examine the area of the canvas where the attendant was pointing. He knew he would not be able to stop himself now: the overwhelming desire to demonstrate the power of his belief.
***
Sometime later, a call came through on the walkie talkie. A man at the information desk was looking for someone he’d arrived with earlier but could now no longer find. A woman. One by one, the attendant’s colleagues confirmed that they had not seen her, a chorus of negative responses crackling over the airwaves to which the attendant nonchalantly added his own. He felt a little lightheaded, the energy drained from him.
“You haven’t seen her, have you?”
The sudden return of the booming voice made the attendant jump. The tall man loomed over him.
“Maybe she left already?” the attendant said innocently.
“Without telling me?” He gave the attendant a disdainful look, but there was a note of panic in his voice. “She’s not even answering her phone. What’s she playing at?”
The clack of his expensive-looking shoes echoed off the walls and the high ceiling as he hurried away.
Of course, thought the attendant, if the man had stuck with his art degree he’d have learnt to look at a painting properly, and his search for the lady would have been over. As it was, he might never stop looking. The attendant rested back in his chair and closed his eyes. He listened to the subliminal and soothing hum of the lighting overhead. He stayed that way until the walkie talkie crackled again. Five minutes to closing time. He informed an elderly lady, who thanked him and hobbled slowly towards the exit. In the solitude of the empty gallery, the attendant surveyed the painting one more time.
She had her back to him, a small figure paused at the edge of the snow-covered track, surveying the fields beyond. Her footprints led to where she was stood, by one of the trees, near the shuttered house. Her red coat was a moment of rich contrast against the varying whitenesses of the snow. The sensation of the eternal winter’s day took hold of him again. Maybe she too could feel the chill on her face. Maybe the sunlight was in her eyes. He had been right. She was perfect for the painting. The attendant felt very satisfied with his work.
He turned off the lights and locked the double doors and returned the keys to the reception desk.
“Looks like it might snow,” said the security guard, leaning back in his chair and looking out of the window at a heavy grey sky. “Strange; the forecast didn't say anything about snow.”
The attendant said good night and left the building, just as the first flakes were beginning to fall.
***
The double doors swung open and a tall man and a lady entered the gallery, both smartly dressed, on a late lunch most likely. With a serious expression on her face, the lady studied each painting they came to. She wore a dark red coat and knee length brown boots that clicked softly on the laminate flooring. The man, who was looking down at his phone rather than at any of the artwork, was obliged to keep stopping to let her catch up. He looked annoyed about it.
The lady stopped in front of the snow scene.
“I love this one.”
“It’s my favourite too.”
They turned and the man glared down at the attendant. Then he looked at the lady and saw that she was pondering the attendant with a faint smile. Slipping his phone smoothly into the inside pocket of his coat, he spoke in a voice that boomed around the gallery.
“I did a History of Art degree.”
“Did you? I never knew.”
“Moved to law after the first year. Realised there was no money in art. No offence.”
The attendant felt an overwhelming desire to pick up his chair and swing it as hard as he could into the man’s artless and ignorant mouth. Instead, he said politely,
“Not much money, no.”
“You get to look at these paintings every day,” said the lady, glancing up at the man, her face serious again. “It can’t be so bad.”
It struck the attendant that the lady would do perfectly. He nodded. “I do get a lot of satisfaction from it, yes.”
“We should get back,” said the man, placing a hand on the small of the lady’s back.
As they were leaving, the lady said something, with a quizzical expression. The man gave a derisive snort and the lady blushed and lowered her head a little. The couple left the gallery, and the attendant went to his chair.
After a short while, the lady reappeared, alone. She came near to where the attendant was sat and stopped in front of the snow scene.
“I just wanted one more look,” she said in a quiet, determined voice.
“Be my guest.”
“It’s just so beautifully captured. I want to go there. I can almost feel the place.”
“I know exactly what you mean,” said the attendant, standing up. “That would be some escape, wouldn’t it? I think it’s to do with the way the artist has used different tones of white. Like here.” The lady stepped closer to examine the area of the canvas where the attendant was pointing. He knew he would not be able to stop himself now: the overwhelming desire to demonstrate the power of his belief.
***
Sometime later, a call came through on the walkie talkie. A man at the information desk was looking for someone he’d arrived with earlier but could now no longer find. A woman. One by one, the attendant’s colleagues confirmed that they had not seen her, a chorus of negative responses crackling over the airwaves to which the attendant nonchalantly added his own. He felt a little lightheaded, the energy drained from him.
“You haven’t seen her, have you?”
The sudden return of the booming voice made the attendant jump. The tall man loomed over him.
“Maybe she left already?” the attendant said innocently.
“Without telling me?” He gave the attendant a disdainful look, but there was a note of panic in his voice. “She’s not even answering her phone. What’s she playing at?”
The clack of his expensive-looking shoes echoed off the walls and the high ceiling as he hurried away.
Of course, thought the attendant, if the man had stuck with his art degree he’d have learnt to look at a painting properly, and his search for the lady would have been over. As it was, he might never stop looking. The attendant rested back in his chair and closed his eyes. He listened to the subliminal and soothing hum of the lighting overhead. He stayed that way until the walkie talkie crackled again. Five minutes to closing time. He informed an elderly lady, who thanked him and hobbled slowly towards the exit. In the solitude of the empty gallery, the attendant surveyed the painting one more time.
She had her back to him, a small figure paused at the edge of the snow-covered track, surveying the fields beyond. Her footprints led to where she was stood, by one of the trees, near the shuttered house. Her red coat was a moment of rich contrast against the varying whitenesses of the snow. The sensation of the eternal winter’s day took hold of him again. Maybe she too could feel the chill on her face. Maybe the sunlight was in her eyes. He had been right. She was perfect for the painting. The attendant felt very satisfied with his work.
He turned off the lights and locked the double doors and returned the keys to the reception desk.
“Looks like it might snow,” said the security guard, leaning back in his chair and looking out of the window at a heavy grey sky. “Strange; the forecast didn't say anything about snow.”
The attendant said good night and left the building, just as the first flakes were beginning to fall.