Art of Imperfection
I hated art. No, not myself. Well, not totally, at least. Name’s Art Eldrige. I took, what I thought at the time, was such a crappy job. I guess I felt guilty, but I don’t know. Something you probably won’t believe happened that changed all of that. Sometimes, I still don’t believe it myself.
I never understood what was so fascinating about a motionless picture (aka art). Called em’ lazy movies. My wife, Amelia, never thought so, and maybe for a moment, that’s why I appreciated various kinds of artwork. She was always in galleries, excited to tell me about the new paintings she saw whenever she went. The way she talked about them was more interesting than the pieces themselves. She was relentless in her pursuits to get me to see them with her.
“You’ve gotta see this one Arty, I think you’ll love it,” she said. She gave me these puppy dog eyes with a slight crinkle in her nose backed with intoxicating enthusiasm. It made it damn near impossible to say no.
There was this one piece. It was new to the museum and hadn’t yet been revealed, but she got special permission to show me the next time we went. We never did. If I could have had one more day with her, we would’ve spent it together doing what she loved most.
Time for work. In my navy — blue uniform, complete with a name tag, flashlight, and keys, I headed to the art gallery for my night shift that began in the afternoon. It was my one and only all-nighter. There wasn’t much going on that day, so my job was to pick up a few crumpled napkins on the floor. This place used to buzz with people worldwide, but the people dwindled since we had to send our famous pieces away. A few kids ran around, and I had to tell them to be careful. They listened, but boy, did I get a nasty look from the parents. Hey, it’s not my fault they weren’t doing their job. A few people approached me and asked me what I thought of so and so piece, and I always told them the same thing. It’s art. It’s up to interpretation, so whatever you think it is. Of course, I didn’t believe that. If I saw a picture of a blue curtain, that’s all it was — a blue curtain. There was no deeper meaning behind it. While walking to the darker part of the gallery, I spotted a structure I had never seen before.
An older man approached me, “What is that piece called?” He asked.
“Not sure but let me see.” In the middle of the room was a triangular Prism made from crystal that slowly spun on a turntable. There was a skylight overhead to let some light in. On the label, it read, “Prism of the Moon. The beams of light give life.” No moon. Who comes up with these names that have nothing to do with the piece? What I thought had nothing to do with the piece.
“The paintings… they’re alive, aren’t they,” he continued. This guy must’ve been on something pretty good that day. I wanted whatever it was.
“Artwork usually isn’t. Why?”
“Don’t you hear that?” If he referred to the crackling sound from the lights and the wind from the big fan, then yes. Heard and noticed. He wasn’t talking about that, though.
“I’m sorry sir, but I don’t hear anything,” I said.
“The cries! My gosh, the cries! You have to help them!” The only one that needed help was this man. I told him we’d be closed soon and recommended an exhibit I thought he’d appreciate. As he left, I looked at the paintings and then closed my eyes — no sound from them. Once I opened my eyes, nothing moved either.
A few hours later, it was time to close and lock the doors. Once that was done, I stood in the entire gallery alone with only a few emergency lights to provide some sight of the place. I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t a bit eerie. The only sounds were my footsteps and periodic key jangles. The structures and paintings were shadows now that seemed to grow and shrink with the illumination of my flashlight. I couldn’t help shaking the idea that with the Prism of the Moon, there was no moon involved before. I realized that was now a possibility with the promise of night.
Back in that part of the gallery, the prism stood invisible as nothing could illuminate it. Did someone steal it? My pulse quickened. With a flash of my light, it revealed itself to still be there. Phew. It turned. The skylight looked up into the black void of night with a few stars shining overhead and the moon. The pictures were motionless and quiet. What was that crazy guy talking about? Still, I felt compelled to stay there and find out. What happened next could only be described as magic. Whether it was the light or dark kind, I wasn’t sure. The light from the moon seeped into the gallery and hit the prism in the center of the room. A stream of light came out of each triangle, and as the prism turned, it eventually reached the three pieces in the room. There’s no easy way to describe this, and I’m gonna sound crazy now, but I….was no longer alone. The art became like that of a movie and teemed with movement. It was strange. Closer to the artwork, I could now even feel each piece. The first was a pirate-like ship out in a stormy sea, the second looked like a woman in distress, and the third had a curtain over it. I had no idea what it was, but I’d find out. The wind blew from the first painting, called Sea of Rigidity, and shook the other art pieces in the exhibit.
As ice-cold water splashed onto my face, voices suddenly cried, “Help us! We’re gonna drown!” Was I supposed to respond? This was insane.
I wiped my face. “Um, hello? Can anybody hear me?” I called out.
“Yes! Please help us!”
“I’m not sure how to — ”
“Jump in.” They couldn’t be serious. I was supposed to jump into what, a picture frame? There was no way my six-foot self would fit into that. This wasn’t Alice in Wonderland 2.0, though it certainly could’ve been.
“Wait, I have a better idea,” I told them. My wife always said, if you don’t like the situation, paint a new picture. I’ll be the first to admit it, but I’m not an artist. These voices seemed as real as any, and they needed my help. A paintbrush and paint were nearby, so I snatched them and approached the canvas. With my paintbrush dipped in orange and yellow, I began making a bright circle in the top left-hand corner, right on top of the clouds. If you saw it, you’d guess a third-grader did it. I’m getting fired for that, but I felt for them, whether this was all in my head or not. Once it was complete, my little addition to the painting took on the same texture and substance as the image already there, as if it had been absorbed. The sun shined and parted thunderous clouds as Moses did to the Red Sea, and the ship returned to a gentle sway. The wind stopped, and a clear blue sky lay in the background as calm waves rolled.
There were cheers from the boat and lots of “Thank you! You saved us!”
“Ah, it was nothing, but you’re welcome,” I replied. No way that happened, but it did. I swear to you, it did.
The second piece was titled Confusion at the Canvas, and it was a painting of a woman who looked like she was trying to create art but wasn’t sure what to paint. She sat in a chair with her head in her hands while her paintbrush and easel lay on the floor in a mess.
“What am I to paint?” She cried. “There are so many things, but how do you choose one? What do people want to see? What will become famous someday? So much pressure! So much pressure!” I cleared my throat and decided to help her.
“Um, excuse me.” She turned towards me and revealed her middle-aged beauty. She had long black hair and a forest green dress on. The canvas she sat before was pure and untouched.
“Yes, maybe you can help. What do you think I should paint?” She asked, distressed.
“Whatever you’d like,” I replied.
“What if the people don’t like it?”
“Oh, I’m sure they will.”
“And if they don’t?”
The right words escaped my mind, so I thought about what Amelia would tell her. “You’re the artist. It’s a piece of yourself you’re sharing with the world. Not everyone will relate to it, and it’s okay. We all have different tastes. It’s what makes us human.”
“Hmm…never thought about it like that. Regardless, I want it to be perfect.”
“Perfect?” I chuckled softly, “It never will be. We can’t connect with perfection, but imperfection? That’s something we all got. What’s meaningful to you?”
“My daughter. She grew up too quickly.”
“Paint her. What’s her name?”
She told me. In the woman’s time, this painting had not yet been done, and she would beat its currently-known artist to the punch. Besides, he had plenty of other things to be famous for anyway. I thought about telling her that it would become the most renowned painting in the entire world someday. Still, people sometimes need to discover things for themselves and trust their abilities. She thanked me, dipped her paintbrush in an array of dark colors, and began to paint what she called the Mona Lisa.
My attention turned towards the third painting, and my curiosity got the best of me. It was the only one that didn’t seem to move. Was it not affected by the moon? I read who painted it and nearly dropped my flashlight. A Perfect Picnic by Amelia Eldridge. Why didn’t she tell me she was not only into art but also painted? Now, I had to see her idea of this so-called perfect picnic. Now that I’m thinking back, she told me she liked to make art on our first date. It was so long ago that I must’ve forgotten. It’s not easy getting older. If anyone asks, the curtain just slipped off, okay? Anyway, the third picture revealed itself, and what a beautiful scene it was. I had no idea my wife had it in her. A young couple was having a sunset picnic underneath a tree resembling the Tree of Life at Disney’s Animal Kingdom. This tree didn’t have animals, though, that much I saw.
I couldn’t tell what was in the tree from a distance, so I moved towards it. I’m positive the moonbeam hit it before, yet there was still no motion. Maybe because it’s newer? Since the prism seemed to control everything, I pushed the turntable to send another moonbeam toward the picture with the curtain now off. My eyes shot open, and anticipation built inside me. What would this painting’s movie be like? It was my wife’s and I wanted to see it. I wish I had paid more attention to her. A few tears fell as I looked at this picture before me. God, I miss her.
“Cheer up. It’s okay.” A female voice that seemed familiar shook me out of my current state. If it weren’t for the warm summer breeze from the painting, I still would’ve thought the voice was in my head.
A younger man who looked her age replied, “I forgot the sandwiches. The one thing that makes a picnic a picnic. This was supposed to be perfect, and it turned out to be a disaster.”
The woman smiled and shook her head. “It’s okay. Really.” She patted him on the shoulder. “This will be the world’s first picnic without any sandwiches. How interesting!”
“Anyone told you you’re great at that?”
“Great at what?” She said, intrigued.
“Making people feel better.”
“Let’s see what else you forgot,” she teased. They went into the picnic basket, pulled out some fruit and crackers, and ate that while they looked at each other like they were the only two in the world. “Oh, the sunset! How beautiful!” The sun never sets for them, and they could always enjoy each other’s company — a perfect picnic indeed. This girl in the painting reminded me so much of my wife that I started to talk to her.
“I’m so sorry!” I cried out. “I wish I would’ve… could’ve… there’s so many things I wish I had done differently, but it’s too late. I should’ve gone to more art galleries with you! Asked you about your painting! I forgot you painted, and this picture is lovely just lovely.” The younger man in the painting said exactly what I did to the woman, using the same motions and everything. I was shocked.
“What are you talking about?” She said to him, seeming taken aback. “You okay? Practicing for an audition or something?”
To this day, I still think the younger man looked at me and gave me a subtle nod, “Yeah, sure am.”
“Well, in that case, I’d say don’t worry about the past. It can’t be changed anyway, so what good is it to get upset over it? Think of the good times and all their little moments. The times we’re present. That makes life special — those moments and all their imperfections.” She finished her mini monologue. “How was that?”
“In a word…perfect,” he said, and they kissed underneath the tree. I noticed the tree had details from their life: their first movie stub ticket, a picture she drew for him, and their names carved into the tree above an I Love You. I wanted to stay with this couple, but just because their sun doesn’t move doesn’t mean mine didn’t. The moon had almost disappeared, and it was time for the sun to rejoin the world. The beam vanished as the paintings became still and peaceful once again. The older man from earlier walked by the window smiled and waved at me. I returned it. I never found out exactly how those pictures came to life, but I guess that man knew something I didn’t know about. I quit my job that morning before I would probably get fired for my special additions to the paintings. It was time to move on.
I headed to the park at the end of my shift. It was a beautiful day, and though I was tired from the night’s events, I was more excited to go out and get some fresh air. The birds were chirping, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky. I sat down at the park bench underneath a tree and opened the picnic basket that I brought. The food lay before me: fruit, water, chips, and as I was about to get the last thing, I laughed. I forgot the sandwiches again.
This is usually the part where I’m supposed to promote myself. I’m just glad this found you because I believe for whatever reason, it was destined to. If you’d like to check out my other work, follow, comment, or share, that’s entirely up to you. I promise we can still be friends either way :) Thank you for taking the time to read this, and I hope you enjoyed my words!
Daniel Snyder
“Either write something worth reading or do something worth writing.”
— Benjamin Franklin
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