Ignition [h.s]

01

ELISE ROSEWOOD

I stand with my arms crossed consciously over my chest, watching the copious number of New Yorkers flashing past me in their individual but eccentric bursts of colour and character. Everyone in this city seems to know exactly who they are—the elderly lady with a fluffy puppy on a leash probably lives in the expensive penthouses the avenue over judging by her proud walk, and the doorman of the hotel lobby across the road is likely to be revaluating his job every time a speeding cab sprays water up onto the sidewalk, wetting his worn, leather shoes. Sad existences, but at least they're sure of themselves.

So, who am I? Standing by the doors of an art gallery when I'm a music major, waiting for my best friend Jess to arrive, feeling a little foolish because I'm far too anxious to go wait inside by myself. I wish I was the type of person to be confident enough to just go inside places like this without needing company, but the happy looking couples skipping through the doors paired with the intimidating sign of the gallery makes my throat tight with solitude. I've never heard of American Gothic Art Gallery before, but then again, my knowledge on anything to do with art is sparse.

The building is tall, chiselled stone architecture which vaguely resembles a medieval castle. Fitting for the name of the gallery as it does look very Count Dracula, but still extremely intimidating nonetheless. I don't have much more time to pick at the loose threads of my navy sweater or contemplate my overall anxiety regarding going inside before there's a tight grasp on my arm.

"Thank God you came, Elise!" Jess is grinning from ear to ear, her dark permed hair bouncing with the movement as she bombards my eyesight. I relax now that she's with me, her presence becoming an instant comfort in this overcrowded street. She looks pretty as always in her cropped shirt and leather jacket, all of which complement the honey shade of her skin. I try too hard not to dwell on my mother's old sweater and ripped black jeans, or the white converse on my feet that are almost always dirtied—I have to buy a new pair once a month here.

"Why wouldn't I come?" I giggle, as we link arms and slot into the queue for the gallery.

"That's what she said." Jess wiggles her plucked eyebrows, as I whack her in the arm for the innuendo. She shrugs, reverting to answer my original question. "Well, I don't know... I just supposed you wouldn't be up for the whole art thing." Her tone softens in reference to my past, and whilst I appreciate her concern on the topic, I'm also determined to show her that I've shaken it off. Whilst I had been a little reluctant to join her at first for my personal reasons, I'm sure spending some time confronting my fears will help eradicate the hollow pit of anxiety in my stomach. "Nope. I'm totally up for a bit of art." I smile, but as we collect our tickets at the door from a stern faced looking bald man, the anxiety rippling in my stomach increases again tenfold. "Didn't Zayn recommend this anyway? I'm sure it's great." I speak sporadically with a dried mouth, but it's more to reassure myself than make conversation.

"Zayn did recommend it. We were meant to come together but he got tied down with work." She tells me as we shuffle into the lobby. I haven't much spoken with her boyfriend Zayn yet; all I know is that he works at a library and has spiky black hair.

The walls inside American Gothic are pristine strokes of white and every piece of furniture like the stairs to upper floors or the front desk are painted shades of greyscale and black. The contrast between the dark furniture and the white walls with bright overhead lights makes me feel dizzy and overstimulated, until Jess tugs me through a threshold so that we're now surrounded by the framed art. Much like the lobby, this room comprises of only two colours—white walls and black paintings. There are paintings of a variety of sizes, some which reach the floor whilst others are small enough to fit behind my palm. They're all in golden frames, but the strangest thing about them is that they don't contain a splash of colour apart from greys and blacks. Even the sectional seats running down the middle of the room are made of black velvet and occupied by whining little children with tired parents. These paintings don't exactly appear to be fun for family outings.