He had it now. His magnum opus, despite hating the title as it had been used so many times. The painting was there. There in the gallery with him. Not just a painting, but a portal. A snapshot of the interior of a visualized idea. All he had to do was paint it. The creating part was already accomplished. The taxi bumped along slower than he liked, but he used the time to sketch up some notes. The party had been a total success except for the stranger. Who is this guy following me, he thought to himself. He was too well dressed to be a park bum, but I could distinctly recall that voice from earlier on the trail. Did he follow me into the MET? How did he get past security?
Robert shook the image of the man from his mind to focus on the work. No, THE PIECE! Carefully and frantically he continued his sketch and notes. Every now and then he would call the image up, the micro version appearing on his art pad superimposed over the rough penciling. Robert jotted down even more notes and emphasis on trickier parts he wanted to focus on. An eternity later he arrived at his apartment.
Now that’s a problem, he thought to himself as he looked at the easel and stool in his whitewashed studio. He needed an eight foot canvas and bucket loads of paint in order to complete the Work. At first he entertained the idea of using separate canvas to build the dimensions he needed. He also thought of simply painting it on the wall of his studio, but figured the logistics of removing it for his showing would be too difficult. Dodson decided that he would continue to make his notes and make his order in the morning.
Robert’s focus returned to the party. Amabelle and Darcy had already moved on to talk to some of the other patrons. The artist looked about for one of the servers so that he could get another glass of champagne. As he slipped amongst the patrons, 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.
Robert simply stared at him while the man returned his own cold appraisal. 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 the jabbing response. The man shifted slightly in his dark blue coat.
“How did you do it?” The man asked in his gravelly voice.
When he didn’t respond, the man continued.
“How’d you create all of this and still be fake as shit?”
Doddson took a step back and pressed his hands to his face hard enough to create bright bursts against his closed eyelids. He looked at the paintings leaning against the walls in his studio. The Angry One was there with two more. He did not need to look at them to see that they were brought back from his gallery. There were others too, nestled in the back of his mind, waiting to be placed on their canvas.The sound of the trains moaning distantly in the tunnels grew louder now. Soon the train to…
Something’s wrong, Dodson thought as he looked at his hands. The lines and creases were warping and writhing under his Artist Vision. Both darkening and going pale, the loops and swirls were becoming small spikes and ever widening holes.
Robert took his hands away and 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 loudly despite silence. Shaking, he made his way to the main lobby.
Chapter 18…
James C Gilliam 