The Subjective Dullness of Art

A blend of mystery and drama with elements of introspective storytelling. The short story is about an meaningful encounter on a bus in Aberdeen, Scotland.

A fuzzy layer of vague colors embedded the grounds of Aberdeen. I could barely make out figures in the mist, passing by here and there. But the one thing that was clearly visible was the currant-colored billboard across the street. “ENHANCE MODERN ART” it read. I tried to figure out what font was used. Was it Times New Roman? Or rather, Mr Gabe? That would certainly be ironic since my late ex-husband’s name was Ezra Gabe. Would you possibly believe he would enhance modern art? Pathetic, he lacked too many things to even appreciate art, let alone take part in enhancing it. To think I almost took his name.

With a loud engine rumble, my view of the billboard was blocked and my thoughts dissolved. In an annoyed murmur, I insultingly whispered to the metal box, “Can’t you move already?”. Just a split second after rolling my eyes at that box, I jumped up and ran towards it. Raindrops hit my skin and ran down my cheeks, which dankly drippled from my soaked-wet hair. An elderly lady held the bus’s doors for me, so I could slip through. I thanked her and took a vacant seat in the back. When the engine groaned again, signaling our departure, I gave a quick glance over my shoulder to spot the billboard again.

“Dae ye like art?” 

I turned back and found the elderly lady waiting curiously for my answer. But she wasn’t exactly facing me. Her head was slightly turned off to the right. 

“Yes, I’m an artist myself.” 

“Oh, hoo grand tae think the young generation still fin’s time fur the pursuit o’ sic an auld dreichness.” she answered while nodding her head in self-enjoyment. 

“Dreichness?”, I repeated quietly . The Scots drive me crazy sometimes. “Art is not a dull thing, is it?” I couldn’t help but criticize. 

She was silent for a moment, so I took a closer look at her. She wore a blue-greenish pullover with a standing collar, red velvet jeans, carrying a light-yellow handbag. Her shoes were from ‘Grenson’, which is a fairly expensive shoe brand, talking on my budget. Her hair was on the edge of fully turning a pale grey, which was only normal for the elderly, and wrinkles across her face. Only now I took notice of her wearing sunglasses and that she wore colors that were all over the place. 

“Art is dull when ye dinnae ken whit mak’s colors an’ shapes oan a canvas tae art.” She continued.

And as obvious as that statement was, I couldn’t help but deeply understand what she meant. Even though, that, coming from her, was quite facetious. I must have had such a narrow mindset back then. 

“My ex-husband lacked that skill.”

“I’m sorry tae hear that”, she said in a kindly lowered voice. 

I wasn’t certain whether she was sorry about the fact that he is my ex-husband or about him thinking art dull. 

“Wee lass, could ye tell me whit the next stop is?” 

I hadn’t noticed that the bus's speakers were off. 

“We just passed Greenburn Drive. Next stop is Howes Road.” I explained. 

“Thank ye, young lass.” She said to me before tapping the stop button. 

“Goodbye” I added. 

“Bye, hae a guid journey.” She swiftly replied before getting off at Howens Road.

I got off four stops later at Auchmill Road.

On a brighter day for a change, a couple of months later, I got off at Howens Road. ‘Art is dull when you don’t know what makes colors and shapes on a canvas to art’. I repeated her sentence in my head, while stopping on the pavement and looking up into the sky. The sun was blazing down on me and blinding my eyes. 

‘I wonder what she thought of art before she lost her eyesight?'

Author's Note

This was quite an experimental story. I haven't ever been to Scotland. So if there are any Scots out there, that could tell me if I got the accent right, that would be lovely. Thank you.