The air is ripe with the smell of wine that is cheap, but not totally tasteless. Hors d'ouerves that are spicy, but not too overbearing. Men that are frightened, but not too shy. Women that are bold, but not too brassy. What is this climate that I have walked into? It is no art museum. It was, but it has left and is replaced, I fear, by empty greetings.
I drift in and out of the meandering crowds. They move as if possessed by the oceans, back and forth, back and forth. One step forward to investigate that smartly dressed man in the corner, one step back to realize that it's not who you thought he was. I must be delicate so as to not upset them or, equally bad, to draw attention to myself. I do not wish to be judged and watched tonight by people I do not know. They talk gaily and strongly about the weather, the mayor's decree, a cafe on Grand Street, and an ill relative of indeterminate origin. But they know each other and I do not and am aware that even if I were to try, they would look at me as some sort of introvert. A callous boy who hadn't paid his dues yet.
I left the pulsing crowd and moved to the periphery where I leaned against a wall. A glass of cheap red merlot in my right hand. My left hand hanging guardedly down at my side. My face expressing a casual disinterest, as if the surroundings were the same as they always had been. Was that a smirk or smile showing itself? Or both...a kind of Mona Lisa expression that conveyed contrasting emotions?
Yes, and of course, no.
I checked my watch, so little time had passed. I raised the glass to my lips and thought about taking a sip, but no. Wait. There on the left, standing next to a column talking to that dark-haired girl with the polka-dot muslin top, I know him. But how? And do I make eye contact with him? Does he know me? I step a little closer pretending to be interested in the digitally manipulated photograph behind him. No. It is not him. Does it really matter? Of course not; it's not like I ever would have approached him anyway. I take a long sip of merlot.
I figure looking at the art might make sense. In a gallery, that would be the logical thing to do nearly all of the time. I begin looking at the photographs. I am impressed with their subtlety; the artist's ability to combine the sympathetic with the powerful without becoming maudlin and sappy is a testament. I take a sip of merlot in a silent toast to this great artist who will most likely never be shown in a public space again. Will he die alone in his studio, I wonder? Will he have friends who discover the body? Who will come to his funeral? Where will he be buried? How will he be remembered? I try to answer these questions for each of the people in the crowded wine-saturated room and am quickly awash in my own fears and suspicions. This is too real, just too real. I have taken an account of people and now wish to go back to my room, free of the thought of the rest of their lives. But now that my eyes have been opened, they refuse to close. They refuse to forget. I turn back to the photographs. An American flag in front of a conveinience store. What is the symbolism? Do I care? Does it matter in the long run? Why does the flag have 48 stars?
Oh no, the questions have started again. But I am not asking them and no one has the drive to answer them. I scream internally. Answer my questions! Look at me! Observe my ability to comprehend and interpret! But, no. I have been caught in the right place at the wrong time. I may as well be one of the parquet floor tiles that creak subtly with each footfall; one of the spotlights illuminating a certain aspect of the photograph; a glass being used by a rich businessman to get drunk that night. The questions...I had thought to be rid of them.
The doors open and the people flood in to the space ahead of them. The gallery begins to empty as if a giant funnel were turned on. Empty wine glasses are left on shoulder-height tables. My questions travel with them and the elusive answers are close behind. I am alone in the gallery. Each step I make echoes and I am now concentrated on this oddity. So much space now. I can observe the artist now but discuss it with no one. They have left me alone and taken my curiousity with them. I am a shell inside of a shell and the only enigma left is: do I give that shell depth?
Yes, and of course, yes.
