---

 

This writing was accepted for publication in the 108 page perfect-bound ISSN# / ISBN# issue/book “And I Disappear” Down in the Dirt, v192 (the 2/22 Issue) Order the paperback book:

Order this writing that appears in the one-of-a-kind anthology The Ice that Was the Down in the Dirt Jan.-April 2022 issues collection book		get the 420 page Jan.-April 2022 Down in the Dirt 6" x 9" ISBN# perfect-bound paperback book:

Art Museum

Mark Pearce

    The Fleur-De-Lis Gallery stood on a side street in Soho in lower Manhattan. Abstract paintings and modern sculpture lined the walls. The main focus of the exhibit was a shoulder-high piece of abstract sculpture, roughly T shaped. A man stood examining it closely.
    A woman approached and stood next to him, admiring the sculpture. She was young and attractive, with soft blond hair hanging past her shoulders. The man leaned toward her. He seemed very self-assured, almost cocky.
    “Hello,” he said.
    The woman looked at him, then turned back to the sculpture. The man smiled. He began with a know-it-all attitude which quickly faded. “Ah, yes . . .” he motioned to the sculpture. “I think this piece is very . . . er . . . symbolic.”
    “Of what?” said the woman without looking up.
    The man struggled, “Why . . . er . . . um . . . of Life.”
    The woman looked at him, then walked away without speaking.
    A second man, who was standing nearby, noticed the exchange.
    “Pssst . . .” he called to the first man. “Pssst . . . PSSST!”
    The first man was startled. “I beg your pardon?”
    “I said ‘pssst’,” said the man, casually.
    “Oh.” The first man looked at the second man as though he thought he was crazy. He moved subtly away. The man followed him.
    “Pssst.”
    “What do you want?” said the first man, now angry.
    “You’re going about it all wrong.”
    “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
    “Sure you do. Listen, I’m just trying to help you.” He looked toward the woman. “Watch this. It’s all in the terminology.” He straightened his collar and sauntered up to her. “Hello.”
    She nodded but did not speak.
    “You like this piece?” he said.
    “Mm-hmmm.”
    “Personally, I consider it a masterpiece of existential epistemology delineating the futility of human endeavor.”
    “Wow,” she said, impressed. “You really know a lot about art.”
    “I should. I happen to be a professional critic.”
    “Really?” she said, shyly. “I’m studying art at the university.”
    “How interesting. Why don’t we go to your place and discuss it further? Perhaps I’ll buy you dinner.”
    “Okay.”
    He put his arm around her shoulder and started to lead her away. He turned back to the first man and looped his thumb and index finger into an “OK” sign as they left.
    The man was now very excited. He could hardly wait to try out what he had learned.
    He saw a tall redhead admiring the sculpture. He approached her.
    “You like this piece?” he said.
    “Very much.”
    “Personally, I consider it a masterpiece of existential epistemology delineating the futility of human endeavor.”
    “Say what?”
    “Um . . . I, uh . . . er . . . I think it’s very symbolic. Why don’t we go to your place and I can explain further? Perhaps I’ll buy you dinner.”
    “You’re paying?”
    “I’m paying.”
    She suddenly grabbed him and threw him forward. “All right, buddy. Up against the wall.” She flipped out a badge. “Detective Miller, Vice. You’re under arrest for solicitation.”
    She handcuffed him and led him out.
    They nearly bumped into two people just then entering the gallery, an artist and his agent. The artist was noticeably upset; the agent tried to console him.
    “Calm down,” he said. “Everything is fine. So the critic is a little late. Don’t worry, he’ll be here.”
    “Why should I have to peddle my work like soap, anyway? I’m surrounded by plebians. Just this morning, I caught a man putting out his cigarette on one of my sculptures. Claimed he thought it was an ashtray. Uncultured swine! And I hate to think about what that dog did to my yard exhibit.” He clasped his head.
    “It’s all going to be worth it when the critic sees this,” said the agent. He motioned to the T shaped sculpture. “You really have surpassed yourself this time.”
    The artist calmed down as he admired his own work. “It truly is a masterpiece, isn’t it?”
    “Certainly. Now let’s go see if we can find that critic. He may be in another part of the gallery.”
    While they were talking, a man had stepped up to the sculpture. He watched them leave, then turned his attention back to the piece of art.
    He leaned close to the sculpture, squinting his eyes. He rubbed the base to check its texture. He leaned back and stroked his chin, viewing the work critically. He leaned forward, grabbed the end of one of the T bars, and moved it slightly up and down.
    Suddenly, it broke off into his hand. He looked quickly from side to side to see if anyone had noticed. He tried desperately to put it back on. He pressed it. He twisted it. He spit on the contact surface to see if this would make it stick. Nothing seemed to work. Now he heard the voice of the agent coming back into the room.
    “It’s right through here . . .”
    The man looked around desperately and pitched the broken piece of sculpture behind a nearby work of art.
    The artist and the agent entered with the critic. They were visibly shaken when they saw the sculpture. Neither could speak. The guilty man stood with his eyes tightly closed and his shoulders hunched as if he were expecting an explosion.
    “Magnificent!” said the critic after a moment.
    The man’s eyes popped open. The agent looked at the critic in shock. The artist continued to stare at the sculpture.
    “Gentlemen,” said the critic, “I have a confession to make. I actually came up here last night to look at your sculpture, and quite frankly, I was unimpressed. But now that you have removed that eyesore from the left side! Well! I think I can say, without fear of contradiction, that the concept is revolutionary.”
    While the critic was talking, the artist had remained in shock, but the guilty man began to smile and even looked a little proud. The agent was calculating and recovered quickly.
    “We knew you would like it,” he said. “You should have heard him this morning. He knew there was something wrong, but he just couldn’t quite decide what. Then, at about noon today, it hit him: remove the eyesore from the left side. It seemed so simple once he had the answer.” He turned to the artist. “Isn’t that true, Pablo?”
    “Um, yes . . . of course,” said the artist, coming out of a daze. “That’s the way it happened. Yes.”
    “Well, it was a stroke of genius,” said the critic. “Pure brilliance.”
    The guilty man now stood casually with his hands in his pockets. He ducked his head in an “aw, shucks” pose.
    “Come along, young man,” said the critic to the artist. “We have business to discuss.”
    The two men walked out, followed by the agent.
    The guilty man was now very proud of himself. He looked around, head held high. He stepped up to the piece of art, viewed it favorably for a moment, then reached up, broke off the other arm, and tossed it away. He viewed the sculpture critically, nodded approvingly, then walked off, whistling a happy tune.

Copyright of written pieces remain with the author, who has allowed it to be shown through Scars Publications and Design.Web site © Scars Publications and Design. All rights reserved. No material may be reprinted without express permission from the author.

Problems with this page? Then deal with it...