How to kill The Gallery

A Story by Kyan

a personal piece

How To Kill The Gallery.

5:50pm. A closed window. Filament bulbs regurgitating an orange hue that harmonises with the green flashing of her smoke alarm. The former’s incessant buzzing proving irksome. There’s only 10 minutes left now. We see our protagonist kneeling, pondering- all futile attempts to escape. She holds a cinnabar-clad brush in her left hand, pinning her canvas to the parquet floor with her right. It longs for her absence, and, to an extent, this remark is mutual. Her mind undulates between ivory palates and the urges of immoral stencils. Ceramic eyes and cardboard hair tenses; nail varnish decerped. How many days has this canvas been waiting for its meaning? I’ve lost count, and I believe she has too. However, I already know what she is going to paint. In truth, unbeknownst to her, it was decided a mere hour prior.

***

"There you are! May I speak with you please?"

3:23pm. The liminal space between adolescent freedom and home. A man sitting at his desk. He was slender yet heavy. Dry yet damp, happy but ultimately, a sad man. I've chosen to name him, Mr. What's-his-name, for an agenda void of anonymity but plentiful in a meta-attempt to martyr myself. "Aren't you going to apologise?" Mr. What's-his-name exclaimed, pulling the gnawed tabaco-stand-in he calls a pencil out of his mouth. Our protagonist fell silent- fell more silent. Mr. What's-his-name continued, “Look, I’ve got people lining up for an opportunity like this. The Gallery needs something by the end of today or… I’m sorry, I’ll have to pick someone else.”

The Gallery? She, probably, thought to herself. Imagine starting to personify a conglomerate in order to cognitively beat yourself out of writer’s block. Art must be original; art must be candid. The latter statement so hypocritical-

“Hello!?” Mr. What’s-his-name so rudely interjected, “I don’t get what’s so hard for you. Just paint. Your canvas should reflect thyself, so just paint!”

Just paint?

How patronising. Just paint. Sentences sat idle in her mouth; something was brewing between The Gallery and the girl who just wanted to paint. Nevertheless, with an almost defeated sigh, Mr-what’s-his-name concluded, “I won’t keep you any longer, I’m sure you have places to be.”

She didn’t

“Send me a photo of your piece by 6pm. Goodbye.” And with a nod underscored by shades of disgust, Mr. What’s-his-name took his leave. Our protagonist found that the only thing more patronising than her teacher’s words was the silence that remained in their absence.

4:30pm. The Gallery itself. What possessed her to visit it? I do not know. The Gallery swallows everything and everyone it holds, and I can say with certainty that it holds her the closest. So close that she isn’t able to differentiate herself from the aggravated fluorescent fixtures encased in a shield of cheap glass implanted into the ceiling’s skin, or the green specks that accompany them that turn on. Off. On. Off.

A green light? How poetic. Mr. Fitzgerald will see you now.

Witty. But I think we both know this green light means something different to her.

“What are you going to paint?” The Gallery asked. She places her right thumb onto her bottom lip. “You have a choice, I’m the one giving you that. All I ask, is for a painting. Why can’t you give me anything? You’ve done it before, haven’t you?”

“You say I have a choice?” she snipped back. “I loved you when I was little. Before everything got so complicated. Before I was put into a box. So no, I don’t think I have a choice, because no matter what I make, it’ll never be good enough for you.”

“If to create art is to create thyself then perhaps you are right. So go back to your tiny recluse. Escape into a place where you can convince yourself you have worth!” The Gallery sighs.

“Am I talking to a f*****g wall? I hate you. I hate your brain and I hate the way you make me feel.”

“But do you love me enough to give me up?” The Gallery asked, earnestly. Our protagonist stood, engulfed by four white walls, with the sentences once templated now stated. She took her leave, knowing now, with confidence, how to kill The Gallery.

***

5:55pm. A closed window. The orange hues of the filament bulbs now harmonising with the sound of a matchstick fulfilling its role. What was once a paint brush, now a brush of idiosyncratic understanding. We see our protagonist kneeling over a canvas painted with the pungent stench of gasoline. She stares into herself. The match, creeping towards her fingers begin melting the varnish that hides her nails.

6:00pm. The flickering green light turns red; an alarm now ringing between her ears, screams for help. But to no return, her canvas is now complete.