scratched the thinning hair beneath his cap. "I'm afraid I don't see a black spot, Mrs. Theriot. And hanged if I can see what you find so fascinating about it."
"Don't--" The word popped out loud and thin and shrill, and the gallery fell silent, but I was shaking so badly I couldn't focus on all the faces that turned toward me. Although it was cowardly, I abandoned the painting and ran out, blundering into the doorframe and spinning into the hall in a hazy mist.
Fred's voice echoed out after me, "--a little high strung. She'll be okay."
I sat in the driver's seat of the SUV for probably twenty minutes before my hands steadied and the mist cleared. Not satisfied with destroying the painting, Fred denigrated it before all those people. Art obviously cannot take care of itself; it depends on its spectators to protect it from harm, the way Anastasias protected me years ago when I fled to his studio after my first husband bloodied my nose, even though I had graduated from high school six months before and was no longer his student.
Sunday I feigned illness and stayed in bed the entire time Douglas and the children were at church, and throughout most of the afternoon, rallying in time to fix supper. I suppose I should've been braver and gone to the museum, but I was too afraid of what I'd find.
By Monday I'd summoned up the courage to face the disaster and was relieved to find that I'd built it up in my head worse than it actually was. The once-smooth red surface was still bumpy and the black dot had not disappeared, but at least it hadn't grown any. Fred was off on Mondays, thankfully, so I lavished as much attention on it as I could between class visits--three that day--and by the time I left at five, the dot was gone and much of the smoothness had returned.
A flurry of excitement kept us busy most of Tuesday. One of the artists featured in the Textile Arts gallery died Monday afternoon, and the local press descended upon us Tuesday morning as soon as the museum opened. I scurried here and there finding out bits of information about the artist, sending off faxes to other major galleries where her work was exhibited, and generally making myself indispensable to the curator.
It was nearly closing time before I returned to the Future of Art exhibition. The DeGraffenried painting greeted me with its quiet red glow, and a peaceful feeling draped around me, sluicing away the fatigue.
Until Fred walked in.
"Hey, you'll like this," he said, waving a sheet of paper. "Here's the review of the exhibition I'm posting tonight on the Alabama Arts Today site. Wanna hear part of it?"
He apparently took my glare for assent, because he cleared his throat. "'While those works--' I talked about the Frankenthaler and a few other famous ones in the previous paragraph. 'While those works provide a long-overdue treat for the jaded Birmingham museum visitor, other paintings in the exhibition are less successful.'"
"I don't think I want to hear this." I chewed my lip as the whining started again in my head.
"'An abstract piece by derivative painter Anastasias DeGraffenried has no place among his more famous brother and sister artists. The bland smoothness of the red and white paint does little to enrich our understanding of color or texture. His sort of sterile minimalism is no longer relevant, if it ever was, and would be better suited to hang in a motel room rather than on the walls of--"
"Stop it!" I shouted, quivering from head to foot, feeling as though I rapidly shimmered in and out of existence like a mirage in the desert. "You'll ruin it."
Fred shook his head and grinned. "Naw, the artist already did that to the poor canvas. Besides, what's my little criticism gonna hurt, huh?" The announcement that the museum was now closed echoed through the room. "Why don't you go on home? You're looking tired. You've had a long day," he said as he plodded out, then called over his shoulder, "Be sure to check out the website later!"
I spun toward the painting, frantically swallowing down the bile that fouled my parched throat.
A black bullet hole scarred the center, jagged black lines ripping from the hole toward the white canvas. The dull red had rubbed off in places, mottled with an ugly grayish color beneath. A section of the frame had splintered off and disturbing brown smears marred the pristine white.
Tears blurred my vision, but I wiped them away with the back of my hand. Pity was a luxury I could not afford. A steely lump hardened in my stomach, and my cheeks felt cold and tight. Art must be defended from its critics, protected from its detractors. I had the power and it was my responsibility to use it. Clenching my fingernails into my palms, I strode out of the gallery.
Fred was no longer in sight, but I knew his routine. He made one final circuit of the building, checked the workroom last, then locked up for the night. That gave me about ten minutes.
The workroom was deserted when I slipped in. Ms. Connor kept the room neat, but in her haste today she'd left the pneumatic nail gun out on the table. Propped against the wall was a huge canvas she was re-stretching. I plugged the nail gun into an outlet near the door and thought hard about the original pristine surface of the DeGraffenried before Fred had defiled it with his scorn. I felt the radiance of the warm red enveloping me, caressed the river of silky pure color, listened to the soothing murmur of a world of infinite peace safe from all scorn and neglect and abuse.
Time slipped around me with little meaning until Fred's footsteps thumped in the corridor, interrupting my meditation. He pushed open the door and smiled when he saw me, opened his mouth, but before another word issued from those filthy lips, I shoved the nail gun against his navy blue tie and pulled the trigger twice. The double pop echoed loudly in the workroom. His eyes stretched open, bloodshot whites nearly swallowing the brown pupils. I stepped away, and he gurgled, a dollop of blood like thick carmine paint bubbling down his chin, fluttered his hands before him like some little old lady faced with a Mapplethorpe, and pitched over on the floor onto his face.
With icy fingers I unplugged the nail gun and replaced it where I had found it so Ms. Connor wouldn't be angry. She doesn't like anyone touching her tools, so I took an extra moment to carefully wipe away any fingerprints. I stooped down beside Fred. His initial slow pulse quickly faded and stilled.
A warm flush dashed the ice from my skin, and I giggled, looked down at Fred, and giggled again. Smoothing my skirt, I stepped over the body, and turned out the light in the workroom. Time to tell the painting--if it didn't know already--that it was safe from Fred's jeering.
The corridors were very quiet except for the white noise of the air conditioning whirring overhead, but for the first time, it didn't fill me with nervous dread. As I listened carefully, I heard works of art all over the museum sighing in concert, pleased that the violence toward one of their brethren had been avenged. Head held high, I strode confidently into the Future of Art gallery, which was lit only by the emergency lighting and the red glow of the exit signs. I ignored the congratulations of the Frankenthaler, the Stella, the Rauschenberg and approached the DeGraffenried.
The painting was perfect once more. Whole. Maybe even slightly larger than before, the red surface a bit shinier, the white canvas a little more stark.
I blinked.
Walked around the room. Gazed at each painting for a moment before returning to the DeGraffenried.
I truly saw it for the first time.
A puerile, amateur, derivative piece of garbage that had no business hanging in a gallery with the likes of Frankenthaler and Stella and Rauschenberg.
I walked out of the museum, climbed into the SUV, and drove home to cook dinner.
The next evening, while the children were out at a ballgame with their father, I pasted the article from the newspaper about Fred's death in my memory book alongside the obituary of my first husband, a police photograph of the Times' art critic (how I got that is my little secret), and an advertisement pleading for information on the whereabouts of a certain teenaged would-be art vandal whose body would never be found. As I wiped away the excess glue from the edges of the clipping, it occurred to
me that abusive husbands and critics and vandals are not the only ones harming art lovers and paintings and etchings.
Inferior artists, whose daubings somehow slip into exhibitions and detract from those more talented works hung nearby, might be just as dangerous. After all, Art can't take care of itself. The power lies in the beholder.
Perhaps Douglas and the children would enjoy a trip to Atlanta while I paid a visit to a certain artist's studio.
~*~*~
About the Author
Donna K. Fitch is not a scary person. She doesn’t like slasher movies and has been known to throw up at the sight of blood (mostly her own). She is, however, rather fond of eldritch horrors, curses, cemeteries, falls of fish, and torturing protagonists. She will don another identity for a role-playing game at the drop of a hat (which she looks rather good in, by the way). She is still not sure what she wants to be when she grows up, but she’s been a librarian and a web designer. And a Baptist worship leader. Donna lives in the middle of the state of Alabama with her technology-whisperer husband Thomas and her three cats, Nala, Alice and Sophie.
Connect with Me Online
Website: https://www.donnakfitch.com
Quantum Critique Page 3