Art As Art

A Story by Willys Watson

Art As Art

A Short Story

From time to time Doc noticed them watching him as he prepared his space, carefully hanging his paintings, setting up the small table he brought with him, laying out his companion sheets for the exhibit. As he went about doing this they said little. But they didn’t have to speak. He already knew enough from their expressions. They were letting him know he was not in their league.

There were eight of them, five men and three woman, all younger by half than he was. He wasn’t all that old, but in their world Doc was an ancient relic. Of the eight only one seemed friendly towards him, the one the older artist thought was a pretty damn good painter. The others made no effort to welcome him into their elite circle, but this didn’t bother him. He was happy enough just to be invited to participate in this one night only group show. And though the space allotted him was the smallest one, allowing only twelve of his works to be displayed, he really didn’t mind. It was, after all, for a worthy cause. The gallery owner was donating the use of the gallery and any money he made from any sale to the Toys For Tots Christmas Fund.

At the reception Doc felt uncomfortable, as usual, and out of his element. Meaningless small talk was never one of his strengths. But the younger artists seemed to thrive in such an environment as if they had been preparing for nights like these all of their lives. They struck their poses with relative ease, responding with exaggerated gestures at the slightest attention they received. And they worked the room, manipulated the crowd, like seasoned actors.

Doc wasn’t jealous of the attention the others were commanding because it deflected the banalities away from himself. They were receiving their rewards and he was receiving his because he knew the few who bothered to approach him were only interested in his art and this made it worthwhile to him. Still, there weren’t that many who approached his exhibit, perhaps two dozen out of the three hundred or so who came, lingered, drank and viewed selectively the art throughout the evening. But to these few who were drawn to his work he was grateful and gracious, sincerely answering their questions.

Late at night, after the last of the guests had left, the gallery owner called Doc aside and thanked him for being part of the show. The owner seemed genuinely pleased and certainly he should have been. Only four works of art, all paintings, were sold this evening and all had been painted by the old fart who had never mastered anything except expressing himself well on canvas.

© 2013 Willys Watson

My Review

Would you like to review this Story?
Login | Register

Reviews

roarke

Had to read this one. I remember these moments. I stopped trying to figure it all out, mainstream and niche tastes, and just kept drawing and painting. In another discipline, music, there's a saying: "You're only as good as your last performance." didn't matter what you did a week ago, year ago... the appreciation is in the doing, keeping at it. For me, the older I get, I no longer try to DO it all, can't burn the candle as intensely. I do art when it strikes me, my trumpet when it feels right, and now I work at writing. See, your story affected me as the reader into an easy relationship with it. Keep brushing.