A glass being tapped with a utensil was clanging out over the crowd. The talk eventually subsided and the host began talking from in front of the ribbon.
“Well, ladies and gentlemen, the gallery this fine autumn evening has the wonderful pleasure of introducing two new people to the town, though one has resided here for a couple of years now, the other is only here for a short visit, though we have asked him to introduce himself and tell us a little about his travels before we go on to introduce a wonderful new artist that will make a great contribution to the already vibrant art scene in this city. Without further adieu, please welcome from Christchurch, Mr. Francis Goodall.”
The man that stepped up to the ribbon amidst the tentative clapping looked like he hadn’t smiled since childhood: if he had, it was probably a sure sign that God had sent him a vision of the coming apocalypse. His tone of voice did nothing to relieve the situation.
…and then there was what he was saying.
“I believe that every artist is an artist unto themselves; I believe that art is its own art and speaks for itself; however, there is a standard that every art gallery needs to be aware of and absolutely must meet if the paintings that hang on its walls are to receive a proper viewing: this gallery fails in almost every respect!” A shocked but muffled response grumbled from the audience, but attention remained focussed. “Red Walls! Frames that are mere inches away from touching each other! Paintings sitting idly on the floor as though we had just walked into an attic. People – and I don’t mean just the curators of this museum, for I believe that art is a representation of a society, therefore making this gallery the responsibility of all those involved including the buyers and the sellers – you must all set your sights on achieving the highest goals possible in creating a gallery for yourselves to view and display the work of local artists. It is not enough for an artist just to have their work on display, but must also be allowed the privilege to have it displayed in the correct environment, which for you Invercargill, means stripping these walls of their dominating reds and repainting it a neutral white; separating and giving breathing room to every painting unless it belongs to a series of paintings; clearing the floor space to reduce the chances of tripping over paintings. Only then will the works that are hung be allowed to speak for themselves and not be diminished by the warmth of the walls behind them, nor be enhanced by the wall; nor be trying to compete with the paintings next to them, or beneath them, for attention. Paintings must stand on their own, in their own space, complete and answerable only to themselves. To make excuses for a painting is to show a failure in the artist, to show failure in those who believe in art. People wake up!” Gasps escaped from a few mouths but by this time everyone was too engrossed in what he was saying to make any complaints. “You are not isolated in this town – though you might like to think so. This is a very vibrant community with lots of talent, and though I may have some empathy towards what you are trying to achieve and the restrictions that you are faced with, you will not, however, receive any of my sympathy. The entire world outside is feeding off each other’s energies: you cannot afford to be a sitting duck paddling about in your own stagnate pond.
“I would love to stay and talk further about ideas that any of you wish to go over with me but unfortunately I have an appointment that I must attend to. I strongly recommend the artist who is about to unveil her work tonight, and can only hope she develops her skills further. Support is essential, yes, as for all the artists already hanging in this gallery, but critical appraisal must be made welcome in order for all artists and all involved in art to advance further in their work. Thank you, and have a good evening.”
The man stepped back to where he had been, took his coat from a chair, shook hands with the secretary, and then the curator, and made his way quietly to a side door and was gone.
I had never heard so much silence issue from a crowd!
The host sheepishly walked in front of the ribbon again. “Umm, I think it might be a good idea if we all just take a few minutes to digest Mr. Goodall’s comments before moving on. Don’t forget to help yourselves to some wine and snacks. There’s plenty of wine to go around, so just help your selves.” He gave a pleasant smile and a nod to the audience before retreating to the company of his work-team. Everyone else gathered into their own groups and tried desperately to digest what had just been thrown at them, but it seemed like most people couldn’t find anything to say, like the whole speech had dug too deep into their psyches; far too deep for them to make any intelligible sense of.
I thought I was as far into the corner as you could stand, just happily stewing in the upset and agitated air that surrounded me, but I felt a finger tap me on the shoulder. It could only be one person… and she was no longer standing where I had last seen her.
I turned – ever so slightly – remembering everything as they came into my vision: the shoulders, square with a woollen jersey casually hanging from them and falling down to a large waist; feet firmly planted on the ground in loose fitting sneakers – the shoelaces hidden under the ends of casual slacks.
“At least you’re not staring at my breasts.”
I looked up from the floor. Her eyes stabbed me, like knives in my chest, but I held her gaze long enough to let the pain fade away. “Yeah.” Man, I wanted so badly to say something witty, but all I managed was a weak “yeah”.
“It’s been ages, David.”
“Yeah, it really seems like that.”
“So how have you been?” The question seemed genuine.
“Okay, I guess. All things considered. Lisa.”
“Yeah.” She fidgeted with her wine glass. “You know, you could have made an apology. It probably would have gone a long way to making things better. I might not have left even.”
Yeah sure. “They tried to make me. But I wasn’t sorry.”
“Right.” She seemed unconvinced. “Well, if it’s any consolation, the church just wasn’t the same without you.”
“Right.” Churches rarely change, even with the loss of certain members. One person leaves, someone takes their place. It’s how the guys pulling the strings work it. And anyway, I had been nothing up until my excommunication. They would vocally lament the loss of this member, make a big song and dance about it, and then three weeks down the track they would preach about how much stronger the congregation had become. Losing me had been nothing, if not a blessing – it was the image that I had tainted that had them all in such a fury.
Her fingernails tapped against the glass. “And after the death of that girl… well, I heard that they became even stricter than before demanding absolute obedience.” Her feet shuffled slightly and I’m sure she made attempts at moving backwards, away from me. “It’s just so sad that she was from your church…” Complete and utter disassociation with her ‘other’ church, like it was so tainted now that it was rubbing off on her. “Do you know anything about that?”
“No. No, nothing.” I made to laugh but only managed a small gasp accompanied by a shrug. “Been out of contact with everyone. Over a year now. Y’ know.”
Now she looked sympathetic. “Yeah. Yeah, I know.” …and sorry.
“Only found out about it… from what I read in the papers.”
“Right. I guess so. Well, I’m glad you came. It’s good to see you – and it was so good to see your mother yesterday too. She’s so nice. She seems to be coping really well.”
Actually, mum had started drinking (again) the same day that I had ‘defiled’ the church so ‘appallingly’ (as the papers had put it). But still, I guess she is coping well – it gets her through the day. “Yeah, mum’s doing fine.”
She took a quick swig of her wine. “Hey! I want you to meet some friends of mine from City Light Church.”
So Lisa had deserted our old and crusty church and gone for something lighter and younger? A new church that was more fun?
Before she had a chance to pull them over to her, Lisa turned back to me and said “actually! My friend
Claire is singing at the Sunday morning service. I left a note with your mum to invite you in case we didn’t catch up tonight. I left my details with her as well – you should definitely get a cellphone David, it would be so much easier for us to keep in touch.”
I fingered the phone in my pocket wondering why it had taken her this long to finally get back in touch in the first place.
“They really aren’t as evil as you think.”
I hate cellphones with a passion, but I didn’t have the guts to tell her that I had finally caved in some time ago when my own flatmates purposely went out of their way to make me feel left out because I didn’t have a cellphone. It was a cruel joke that had lasted an entire month of both Tinsdale and Martin giving me shit because they couldn’t get in touch with me and then purposely excluding me from their conversations. It was easy to ignore for a while, but it became so overt that it just ground on my nerves to a point where I gave in just to satisfy their own sick perversion. I was surprised Mum hadn’t given her my number.
“Well anyway, you should definitely come along on Sunday – Claire’s got the most amazing voice, and if her singing doesn’t bring you back to the church then I don’t know what will.”
What a bitch. “Yeah, I’ll definitely think about it.”
She looked at me dubiously. “I know what that means, David.”
“I’ve gotten used to sleeping in on Sundays.”
“God hasn’t forsaken you.”
I felt like taking a swing and knocking her to the ground. Who the fuck was she to preach to me? “Why’d you invite me here?”
She smiled – uneasily. “I missed you.”
Bullshit! A year and a half without any contact, without a single word and here you are saying you missed me. Yeah right.
“And plus, I thought we could make fun of the paintings, y’ know, like we used to.”
The host was clanging a wine glass again.
“…the work of a new artist who has settled in this city of ours just over two years ago all the way from the other end of the country, to begin earnest studies here at the Invercargill Polytechnic. Naturally, this has given her enough time to soak up the lifestyle, the sights, the people, their generous and selfless character – and all of this she has poured into her artwork to give it a sense of colour and design not seen around here before. But a voice that cries out in the wild without recognition in one town, may just be the voice that is heard above all others in another. To encourage her, will you please welcome Miss Callasandra Schuar.”
A young woman with dark tousled hair and a solid, but not large – ‘cushiony’ as an old friend would say – body stepped up in front of the ribbon that led to her exhibition with an assured smile on her face.
“Thank you so much for coming.” She pulled her hair away from her eyes with a single finger. “First I guess I should thank the Polytech for supporting me as a student and my awesome tutor who suggested this exhibition, but also the curator who agreed to it. It’s hard when you are an artist working on your own, but with the constant collaborating between the Polytech and the gallery that I hear so much about, I couldn’t help but think what an awesome opportunity that would be to present these new works. Having an exhibition has been made so much easier!
“This was not the case in my hometown of Auckland, where sometimes it really did feel like I was a voice crying out in the wild: unheard and unappreciated. But here in Invercargill I never truly felt like I was alone. But with that sense of support I also found something else that seemed to inspire more detail in these paintings, and you may recognise aspects of your own town here in these works. I hope you do, but also appreciate how they are depicted.
“Thanks again, to the gallery,” the curator and host nodded politely, “my fellow students,” a set of starving faces lifted their heads from the snack tables momentarily “my tutors, and all of you art enthusiasts that have turned up here tonight. Thank you.”
She nodded some more and stepped to the side as the crowd gave a round of applause and the host stepped up with a pair of scissors offering them to Callasandra to cut the ribbon. She took them, smiled as some photos were taken and proceeded to cut the ribbon that would open the door to the rest of her life… as they say.
I waited for the crowd to disperse. Lisa managed to slip back into her own group of friends without saying anything more to me. I left my corner and began weaving my way through some of the bodies to have a look at the work that hung on the far wall.
There were some smug looking people on one side and then some others with their hands over their mouths on the other – some of these were turning away in disgust, others were wide eyed and trying not to laugh. What could be in those paintings that were dividing the room before me? What would they represent to me, a disillusioned young man trying to escape his past? Trying desperately to forget everything that had caused him such isolation in the world?
I walked up to the first painting as though it was some kind of monolith waiting to transport me into another world where I could evolve into a higher state of being and not care for the banalities of everyday life; something that I had longed for for so long but had somehow eluded me here on earth. But the painting remained as an impenetrable reminder of the world that I did live in and that had cruelly cast out the knowledge of Jesus that I had once known.
I didn’t like it. There was something nasty that was trying to reach out from its stark black background and engulf the viewer. It scared me so I moved to the next only to find vicious images suggesting anger and frustration directed quite clearly at a religious target. As I moved from painting to painting, I started feeling a deep and penetrating reminder of what I had done, yet there wasn’t a single painting that I could point to and say this is it, this is the statement that the artist is trying to make – about me. The images were so obviously making a statement towards an event that, by the looks on the faces, most of the audience knew about, but no one could possibly tell from one single picture that hung on the walls; but stepping back and viewing them all as a whole meant that a much larger and much more damning insight had been painted by the artist, an insight that many were beginning to take exception to.
And it was an insight that I was starting to feel extremely uncomfortable with. I shuffled backwards, trying to disappear into a corner again, hanging my head as low as possible without looking suspiciously guilty.
Murmuring began to dominate the air and some strong opinions were being banded about. There was an attempt at bringing some order when a man spoke up over the crowd saying, “Well, these pictures are certainly a clear indication of how Miss. Schuar was treated by her previous city. Thank the Lord that she found her way here.”
There was some agreement that went a long way to calming the air, until a woman with an obvious chip on her shoulder said “No! No, no, no! I remember her saying quite clearly that these paintings are about her experiences in Invercargill.”
“Calm down Mrs. Stewart. I’m sure Miss. Schuar has had good reason for painting what she has painted.”
“Well, then lets get the girl over here explaining it so that everyone can understand.”
Callasandra walked up to them. “Look, I’m really sorry that it offends you but I have said all that I have wanted to say. My art speaks for itself.”
“Your art speaks for you young lady. Do not think that you can divorce yourself from it so easily. It is obvious that you have no desire to respect the town that has given you such a helping hand. All you can do is fling mud back into its face.”
“No, that’s not true.”
“Are these paintings about your old town or the one you live in now?”
“This one.”
“Then you have done nothing short of stabbing us in the back.”
“It’s not like that…”
“Then tell us what it is like!”
A man from the side of the room that wasn’t doing any attacking decided to stand up for Callasandra. “I think the paintin
gs are courageous! They show an artist stepping up to the plate and having her say.”
Mrs. Stewart shot him a piercing stare. “You would you heathen!”
Another woman stepped forward. “Hold on a minute, Mrs Stewart. I don’t appreciate you using the term ‘heathen’ to describe someone just because they are non-Christian. It is just as reprehensible as these paintings here, and we don’t need to lower ourselves to those standards. We’re supposed to be supporting each other, but Miss. Schuar is obviously trying to be a critic just for the sake of being critical as though that’s an excuse to paint some second rate pictures without any real understanding of what actually happened and why. So in that respect Mrs. Stewart, I concur with you – she is just flinging mud! Dirty and insincere!”
Callasandra was visibly shaken by these words.
Mr. Brunner continued his attempts at mediating. “I don’t think that this is the place and time for such an argument. If any of us have anything further to say, then we should leave it to private communication so that the exhibition can continue on as it was meant by the curators.” He smiled at the party members; they nervously smiled back, leaning towards a table and picking at the remains of a bunch of grapes that the students had carelessly left uneaten.
But Mrs. Stewart wasn’t put off her rant. “Yes, yes; private communication Mr. Brunner. That solves everything doesn’t it? No need for group discussions, no need to defend your works out in the open; just leave it to private communication where no one but the recipients learn anything. Meanwhile, other artists go forth destroying all that is good and pure in the world.”
I found it difficult to understand where her concept of all that is ‘good and pure’ came from. Nothing had been so good or pure since we had left the Garden of Eden.
I Am The Local Atheist Page 2