At the Art Gallery

Chapter 1

Cyrus

The earth spins on an axis surrounded by currents of force and chemical reactions. Chemical relations. I know such chemicals and forces have no sentience, though I wonder if they can feel how time passes.

Maybe they jump from moment to moment, riding to their next reaction. Their next relation.

Maybe they don't need to keep any record of the passage of time due to their constant change. Our sun came from simple gases, our galaxy came from a black hole, which likely came from a galaxy before us.

Still, I wonder if the passage of time in space feels anything similar to space as it does to us.

It is times like these that I feel like I am floating in space, walking on stars.

“Hey, Cyrus, hello, earth to Cyrus.”

“Hmm, what?” I respond, being pulled back down to earth.

“Were you listening to what I just said?”

I remember now that I was walking with my co-worker, Julie back to her car. It’s the company’s Sixth anniversary today, everyone was so excited.

“Sorry, zoned out,” I answer her.

She sighs in return then gives me an annoyed look. I feel embarrassed, I don’t mean to zone out so much, but regardless, it still happens.

“What I was saying,” Julie interjected. “was how I think we should start building on another location.”

Now I am too aware of being focused to focus. Oh boy, nod Cyrus....

She pushes my shoulder playfully. Her nails are always perfectly done. Now, she wears a dark purple color. Not a crack or chip in sight.

“I’m so proud of us.” She finishes and I nod in agreement.

She always asks me to walk her around if it is dark outside. She says it’s because I’m tall and always look like I’m in a bad mood. I don’t tell her I get nervous walking around parking garages at night too, I just walk her.

As I hug her and watch her drive away, this nervousness is brought to my attention, seeing that I am currently walking alone in a parking garage at night. To ease my nervousness, I pick up the pace and try to hum to myself.

I usually don’t have any plans after work unless everyone is going out, but we had thrown an anniversary party at the office tonight, so there was no need to go out. We were too tired. Besides, I already made plans.

With my mind wandering already, I walk through a short forest. Thinking of our roots and where we all came from. What we want now has changed. Though I suppose the pursuit of experience results in change. Much like lighting a match and throwing It into a pile of brush. Our roots are strong and even though our forest is young, it is quite well. I feel proud of us too.

Wait, hold on a second. I am going the wrong way. I hate it when I do that.

Tonight, I’m going to an art gallery my friend has an exhibit at. Part of why I love living in New York City is the art. There is so much of it everywhere, even in the people walking by, however unorthodox that, um, art, is. I can even put up with the pee smell all over the place due to the art.

Wait, am I still going the wrong way?

Dammit!

When I finally get to the art gallery, there are lots of people hanging around the entrance, some wearing lavish and creative outfits, while others’ personalities and voices stand out. I guess they don’t need an outfit to be seen.

As I enter the building, I can see my friend’s corner through the window. The space is small but they fill it in such a way that it almost feels like the biggest part of the building. They wave at me.

“Yo, Cyrus!” They shout out to me.

Even though I heard them I can’t help but focus on all the art around me. There is such a mixed medium here tonight.

Above my head, there is a fixture of assorted flowers displayed to look like a woman hanging from a piece of cloth. The piece is sensual and yet seems so innocent. It reminds me of a more sorrowful piece of art that hung in the church my parents attended. A woman was held by an angel, she was naked except for a cloth covering her made from lamb skin. The painting was seen as a sacrifice of sin. Though, instead of an example of God and sacrifice perhaps this woman is an example of defiance and pleasure. She seems to wink at me as I walk by.

I’m reminded of why I’m here as my friend grabs my arm and pulls me to their exabit.

I laugh at their excitement.

“Cyrus, you need to see something.” They could barely speak through their laughing. These events often have plenty to drink so the likelihood of Mars' wobbly steps being from. . . alternative hydration, is high.

They reach out and gesture to their biggest painting on display, realistic clementines dress the canvas, the skin nearly tearing due to the ripe and full meat of the fruit. It leans back and drapes itself over a string of pearls between a ceramic mug. Ants are shown chasing its sweetness as the sunlight illuminates the fruits.

Even though I have seen it before, I feel captivated.

Mars knows the color wheel better than any other artist I have met. The display is full of life.

My eyes wander down to where they are pointing. A small ticket next to the display name says the painting has sold.

“Holy shit, Mars, you sold it!” I exclaim.

They are bouncing on their feet, smiling ear to ear, now nodding enthusiastically.

“...Yeah, isn’t it great?” They managed to squeak out.

I give them a quick hug. “Oh my god, I’m so proud of you.”

They start laughing. “Cyrus, why don’t you go walk around and see everyone’s art,” Mars speaks as I notice their fidgeting and pacing from excitement. “I need to blow off some steam.”

Mars gallops away before I have much time to say much else.

Glancing at the woman made of flowers hanging high above us, I silently dare her to wink at me again. Compared to Mars' painting, she looks less alive than she did before.

Um. Well I guess I'll walk around.

I start at the right side of the door so I can check it again.

Walking through this building is like looking at different civilizations. Every artist has their own space and their own style of decorating it. Despite almost none of them being like the other, they all seem to be trying to communicate something they can't seem to translate into words. This part of art charms me, especially since I don’t feel like talking to the artists after already attending a party at work. That is simply too much social interaction for me. So, I make sure to look at the art when the artist is occupied.

I admire how each artist is different, how different what they need to communicate is, and how their exhibits reflect just that. For example, the exhibit I am passing has tons of colorful, small canvases covering the walls sporadically and the artist is eagerly talking to everyone looking at their art. While the exhibit I am currently looking at has a series of black and white photographs centered on large canvases decorated with complex oil paintings, most of them had been sold. The photographs are of the artist’s family and hometown, an artist I don’t see anywhere.

From the floor are two sculptures. Figures. I don't know what to think of them. One of these figures is a woman bent over at her hips. Her knees are pronounced and knobby. Her hair is long and looks wet, she parts it with her hands and a sly grin peaks through. Around her legs are vines. They connect her to the earth? Something about her charm is eerie and unpredictable. If she reached out and grabbed my hand I would not feel surprised. The sculpture looks curious enough to do so.

The second sculpture is of a man crouched low to the ground. A snake slithers up his arm and he holds his palm up to guide the snake. He does not look at the snake, rather he looks up into your eyes. My eyes in this case. He looks calm and wise.

How talented.

Shaking loose the eerie feeling creeping up my arms, I look around in this space to see a small table with an array of sculptures placed across the top. I touch the face of a bust. A man sculpted in a Roman-like style. His face reminds me of David. Perplexed yet focused. As if he is seeing something he wishes he had not and is now considering how to deal with what he just witnessed. The top is hallowed out and inside there are words carved into the clay making up the man’s face. I start to trace my fingers where the words are.

“Interested in my thinker?” I hear from behind me. I jump slightly from the sudden noise and turn around.

“Hi, I’m the artist.” He speaks while holding out his hand for me to shake.

I reach out and shake the hand in front of me. His body language is playful and his eyes have a look of curiosity. His hand feels, really warm and dry. There is a slight accent to his voice, though I can’t place it.

“Cyrus,” I answer, his eyes make me feel slightly uneasy so I look back at the sculpture.

He looks familiar to me. Have I met him before?

“Your thinker, you said? That’s why you carved words inside his head, to show that he’s thinking?” I try to speak over the crowd.

He picks up the sculpture. “No, I carved words in his head for people to touch,” he states as he raises the sculpture’s hallowed head and points inside. “See it says right here, “Please, put your fingers inside my head.” He pokes.

I feel slightly embarrassed that I might have missed a, “do not touch” sign.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to put you on the spot, It doesn’t matter if you touch the sculptures.” He says as he lightly places the bust in my hands before tending to the table.

“I like his facial expression.” I blurt out.

He looks up and I realize I didn't ask for his name. Oops.

“I think that especially considering the smaller size, you were able to capture the expression of deep thought,” I add, sounding a little more calculated.

“You look like a thinker, maybe that’s what drew you to the piece.” He speaks confidently.

It always strikes me when people state their observations about me. Like I’m being confronted with my presence in the world. It has a bit of an, “oh wow, that’s right, I’m just like every other person that I see,” effect. “You can perceive me?” weird, but okay.

“Do you want him?” The um, artist asks me. He sounds amused.

“I do, I think he’s a wonderful piece,” I speak back.

He laughs again. “You sound so serious.”

I cock my head. Of course, I sound serious, how else am I supposed to sound? How else would I even sound?

I bought the sculpture and decided to return to Mars’ exhibit.

What an interesting interaction. Going to be thinking about that one for a couple of days. There is a nagging feeling on the back of my tongue. I feel like I have met him previously. Hopefully he didn't recognize me if we had met before.

Not much time passed and my stomach tightens inexplicably, I start to feel nauseated.

Mars is still pacing when I get back. I tell them I’m going to go and that I was glad they sold their painting.

I ride the subway back to my apartment. My clothes felt itchy and people's eyes felt like they were watching me. I try to shake the image of so many eyes off me but it makes me shudder to think about it. When I get back to my apartment, I immediately take out the thinker and place him on my kitchen counter.

After I make tea, I pull up my stool and make myself at eye level with him.

Looking at him like this only magnifies his intense expression. “What are you thinking about, hmm?” I ask him this even though I know he can’t answer me. Regardless of this, I follow where his eyes are looking.

Oh. I guess there was a business card in the bag I brought the sculpture home in. I lean down to pick it up and flip it over to see the contact information.

Kai Alma, artist and sculptor was printed in a deep green color across the middle of the business card along with a website address and contacts.

The warm colors of the card itself seemed to dance and flow together; I wonder if that is a reflection of him.

I feel the Thinker’s eyes staring at me. So, I place the card underneath him and sit back on my stool “Don’t look at me like that, this is his work contact, it would be weird.” I tell him.

Did I just defend myself to an inanimate object? Oh boy, I need to go to bed already.

Over the next few days, I can’t help but think about the interaction I had with Kai. As I thought I would. I kept thinking about how effortless it was for him to talk to me. Not that I think I’m hard to talk to, he just talked to me like I was already his friend.

Though it is most likely he talks to everyone that way. I mean, I was -probably- a stranger to him after all.