Doddson adjusted the fit of his silk bow tie in the mirror-like reflection of the information display. He had never thought of owning a tuxedo before, but with this level of prestige, blue jeans, a buttoned-down shirt, and a black vest were not gonna cut it. This is Big Time. This was it. The murmur of chatter behind the partition made him a little nervous. Some of the turnout, much bigger than he had both planned or expected, were spilling out and meandering in small groups in the nearby exhibits. Thankfully, no one stopped to chat with him. He wanted to get through his presentation before doing any mingling. Taking a breath, he finally made his way to the Sol LeWitt.
Normally, Pollock, Shiraga, Keseru, and Herrera’s works would adorn the walls. Each one of them memorized from the numerous times he had visited. This time, it was all his work. From the very simple college projects to his most recent pieces. He looked at each one, finding with his ‘Artist’s Vision’ a snapshot of the memory within them. He could see the scenes he envisioned in his head float in front of them like holograms. Not just his new works, but the old pieces as well stirring feelings of nostalgia. While the gallery was not terribly big, it was quite crowded, forcing him to gently bump and brush his way to the podium. Amabelle waited with his prepared speech. Darcy and herself were wearing dresses, which was something Robert thought they never did. When he did see either of them it was either pant suits or casual attire. Granted their dresses were not ‘girly’ by any means, they both looked very sharp and quite appealing.
“Good evening, Amabelle. Darcy.” He said.
Amabelle smiled genuinely, despite herself, as she handed him the cards. Darcy beamed at both of them.
“Pretty crazy how we got here, eh?” she said.
“I’m surprised you hung in there this whole time. I probably would not have gotten this far without your help in the beginning.”
“Well, it’s not like I could really say no to the amount of money you were bringing in. It also doesn’t hurt that you’re actually talented, too.”
“Are you going to begin any new directions after this?” Darcy asked.
Darcy never spoke to the artist directly. Robert felt that it might’ve been Amabelle’s way of separating work and home life, like separating the clients from himself. Rob looked at both of them for a while.
“Maybe I could drop by your guys’ place and do some brainstorming over drinks.” he replied.
Amabelle and Darcy exchanged quick glances, smiling still.
“Just don’t keep us up too late.” Amabelle said, motioning him to the podium.
Doddson waited for the noise to die down a little before he began.
“Good evening, all. I hope you are enjoying yourselves tonight. I’ll try to keep this short as drinks and hors d’oeuvre are waiting for me to finish.”
A good deal of murmured laughter responded.
“Many years ago, I was an art student here in New York. As many tend to start out, I was living off my student loans and trying to sell some of my works to make ends meet. On a chance day, one of my pieces placed second in a regional art competition. Which caught the attention of Mrs. Amabelle Lovelle, and her wife Darcy, both New Yorkers as well.”
Robert motioned to his agent and her wife which began a cascade of applause.
“Amabelle helped me to get the contracts I needed to become a successful, and marketable, artist which enabled me to further hone my skills as evident in my most recent pieces. So Ladies and Gentlemen, tonight I shall unveil the masterpiece.”
Despite never envisioning this change of the Ritual before, the artist drew back the curtain to a chorus of gasps and awes. The work stood about eight feet tall and was a kaleidoscope of themes. Surreal. Pointillism. Abstract. Realistic. Fantastic. The piece itself was a collage of the entire MET. The building. The sculptures, the artwork, and the experiences were all conveyed through paint and canvas. Doddson could not help but admire it himself. Again with his vision, he could see the illusionary, holographic overlay of memory and emotion. All of it there, expertly devised and expressed.
At the conclusion, the artist remained at the podium as the guests flowed by. Many questions were answered. Many congratulations and handshakes were had. Many phone numbers were exchanged, both business or hoping for otherwise. As the crowd thinned out, Robert found himself a glass of exceptionally expensive, even for him, wine and milled about in search of his agent. He made small talk with several groups and a few reporters throughout the gallery. As he was about to look outside the Contemporary, a thin, dark haired man detached himself from the group he was conversing with. From his demeanor, the artist could tell that he had been waiting a while.
“Good evening.” Rob said. “So I hope I wasn’t too hokey with the speech. Amabelle insisted on preparing it.”
The man simply stared at him for a long while. The dark eyes under the long dark hair looked at him as if he didn’t believe who or what he was seeing. Rob waited for some kind of response. The man shifted slightly in his dark blue coat.
“How did you do it?” The man asked.
His voice was frighteningly similar to the voice he heard in the darkness of Central Park. Low. Gravely. Nowhere near as hoarse, but in the vicinity of that ballpark.
“What?” Robert replied.
“How’d you create all of this and still be fake as shit?”
Doddson took a step back as if the words had actually slapped him in the face.
“I don’t understand?”
“You’re fake. All of this is fake.”
Robert looked around him. The once bright lights had now dimmed and the art work on the walls, his art work, were twitching and blending with their ‘holograms’ The people were doing likewise. Bleeding together. Fading out. Some of them taking pieces of the holograms as they meandered past the artwork. It looked as if the holograms had been painted in mid-air with the people soaking up the illusions as if the paint were still wet. The dark-haired man seemed to twitch and jitter as well, his body and suit fluctuating between corporal and distortion.
“Look, this is all imaginary, I know. Borderline hallucinogenic…”
The painting to the left of the dark-haired man took on the form of the missing painting. The ‘angry’ painting. All the other pieces were changing too. Each one becoming a different work entirely. Visceral and intense.
“This insanity has to end,” The man said with finality. “I have to put a stop to this, now.”
The man’s image continued to twitch, glitch, and blur as he walked away. When the man was gone, the scene was over. The MET’s artwork now adorned the walls and the imaginary guests had all vanished. Robert adjusted his black vest and t-shirt from under his jacket. His ears rang with the silence. After taking one last glance at the gallery, he made his way to the security desk.
“Who were you talking to?” Stewart asked.
“What do you mean? In general? It’s a speech I rehearse for when I open my own gallery here in the MET.”
The guard looked at him blankly for a moment. Gears turning briefly.
“Ok, that I get, now.” He said. “But normally you do your thing and walk around for a bit and leave.”
The security guard punched up the feed from the gallery. The camera was mounted high on the ceiling and the view had to be panned and zoomed in order to be viewed. He could see his grainy image move about looking for his imaginary version of his agent when it stopped. The image was holding the imaginary wine glass in one hand and gesturing with the other. Then came the ‘slap’. He almost felt the words again. He almost half expected to see the edges of the gallery to writhe and twitch in the monitor as it had in his imagination.
“Like I said, You normally simply stare into the gallery, making your speech I guess, and then mosey on out. This time you stopped and had a full conversation. The guys and I used to wonder if you were possessed or something. Watching from here looks like something from that movie ‘Paranormal Activity.’”
There was a brief glimpse, but Robert saw another image move out of the doorway to leave. Again, his blood ran cold. It was only an arm or a hand or something but it was there nonetheless. A glimpse of blurry, glitchy movement at the very edge of the doorway.
Somebody else was there.
Chapter 18:…
James C Gilliam 