Sunday at the Art Museum
In a red enamel necklace, she stamps hands and looks for her future
IT HAS a certain ambiguity of line.
Yes.
A nonchalant manner of aggression.
Yes.
But it’s still serious.
Yes, oh yes.
Impulsive, yet delicately directional.
Oh my yes.
But it’s hardly a masterpiece.
Hardly.
Far from it.
Very far.
Well, not extremely far. Let’s say middle far.
Middle far.
Actually, the piece is quite good.
Quite.
In its own way, I mean.
In its way.
Now, what do you think of the painting?
I think …
THE museum’s hush is almost too quiet. Hard heels on polished hardwood go click click click. White sound would rub out the click click click. The heels and hardwood would remain. Perhaps then just a thunk thunk thunk.
A young woman with long dark hair collects fees and stamps hands. She wears a modest black dress and a red enamel necklace that resembles ball bearings on a chain. Bright red ball bearings.
She does not smile. She tries to look French. She’s from Michigan.
Because her job requires a welcoming face, she won’t let herself sulk. That would be so easy. She was to have had the day off. Someone sick. Her boyfriend complained with strong words. So sadness beckons like a tempting dessert.
She takes money — mostly cards, a little cash — and stamps hands. In downtime she works slim fingers along with a red enamel necklace, large aluminum pearls under red paint.
She wonders if her boyfriend is still mad. She will see him after the museum closes. They need to talk and discuss. She has serious intentions. Are they reciprocal? She will know soon, within hours. They will discuss their plans.
Meanwhile: the black dress, the red necklace, no smile. She collects the fees and stamps hands.
I HAVE a Miro, you know.
A Miro?
Yes, a serigraph, 4 of 50.
4 of 50?
Quite valuable, really.
I can imagine.
I had it appraised.
A wise move.
The appraiser said I should hang on to it awhile.
Certainly.
For the appreciation.
Of course.
Not long, mind you. Just a little while.
A sensible strategy.
It’s up four hundred percent. I’m waiting for five hundred.
Five hundred. A nice number. Very round.
COLLECTING fees and stamping hands. A busy day. But it’s Sunday. Sundays are almost always busy. Unless it rains hard. People don’t get out to see the pictures if they have to walk through a downpour. Of course, it never rains inside the museum. Still …
One hour until closing. The boyfriend will be waiting. He will calmer now, won’t he? He has to realize that working today wasn’t her idea. So they will discuss and understand. And look ahead to sunny days. She hopes.
The future is ambiguous, unavoidable.
I BELIEVE you told me you acquired a print or two?
Ah. Yes. A trio now. Serious ones, I mean.
The artist?
Three: Stella, Rauschenberg, Indiana.
A powerful trilogy there. Very potent.
Yes.
So American.
Extremely.
You prefer the Americans?
Yes, I think so.
And the moderns?
Oh, definitely. Very modern.
I see.
You like the Spanish then?
Yes. And the French.
They go together.
The language, the climate, the wine.
Cousins, you might say.
AN UNKEMPT youngish man brushes by the black dress and red enamel necklace. He does not pay. No money, no stamp.
Sir, you must pay.
Silence.
Sir, come back. The museum is not free. Sir? Please, sir.
A voice booms across the hardwood. Sorry. I am poor but need to see the pictures.
But you are required to pay. She approaches him, black dress swishing, heels clicking fast.
I have no money, says the boom.
Then you must leave.
I cannot.
Why?
Your red enamel necklace is beautiful. As you are.
A little smile now. Thank you.
Which way is the Pollock collection?
End of the corridor and to your left.
WE HAVE been here a long time.
Three hours, I think.
But we have rested.
True. It has not seemed that long.
One must rest between pictures.
Yes. Otherwise the pictures can overlap, become muddled.
Perhaps we are the ones who become muddled.
Precisely.
Have we seen them all?
All, or nearly all.
Then we should leave.
It is time.
Yes, the museum is about to close.
Which way out?
By the girl in the black dress.
I remember her.
She was wearing a red enamel necklace.
Very provocative.
She is pretty.
If we were younger …
WALKING by the girl in the black dress and her whisper of a smile.
A most enjoyable museum, miss.
Thank you. I will tell the curator.
Good afternoon then.
It’s almost dark.
But it’s not raining.
Yes, we can be grateful for that.
NEAR the front, the boyfriend waits. People leave the museum, flowing past the girl in the black dress.
I’ve had a busy day here.
So I can see.
A few more minutes and we can go.
We need to talk.
There is so much to say. You aren’t angry with me?
No. I hold no anger for you.
What then?
Love. Only love.
THE booming voice hovers by the black dress. The Pollock exhibit is exceptional.
I like it as well.
He was poor, you know. In the beginning.
Many artists were poor.
I am also poor.
We are closing now.
Your necklace is pretty, a good fit for a pretty lady. Are you from France?
No. Michigan.
Ah.
We must close.
BOYFRIEND: That booming voice was strange, prying.
We must talk.
I love you. You know that.
And I love you. Hold me. Tight.
As they kiss, the world collapses until they are alone, two becoming one.
Content now, they stroll along the street hand in hand. She leans into his shoulder, and her smile paints the sidewalk.
So it is settled. She would have a future. And it would be enormous.
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