Ignition [h.s]

02

^^ give her a watch!

ELISE ROSEWOOD

For some reason, I find myself making visits to American Gothic Art Gallery for the following two weeks. There was something about how awful my experience ended that day with Jess; being yelled at for my lack of knowledge and those hooded men laughing at me which has compelled me to make the effort to return. Slotting my visits in around college has been difficult, meaning I'm usually only there during a Friday afternoon before the weekend hustle begins. And there's no denying in that I've been anxious I could see the rude suited man again, but he never seems to make another appearance. Thankfully.

To be properly equipped during my visits, I put in headphones to drown out the awkward squeak of people's shoes on the floors and carry my small green notebook with a pencil around for note taking. At first, I had been taking pictures of the paintings, but found that I wasn't really learning anything from doing that. Jess suggested I try analysing the art instead to really stimulate thought, so that's why I've got a notebook filled with my silly perceptions and colour analysis of these pretty dismal paintings. It isn't hard to write about colour in American Gothic Art Gallery, because it's all in black and white.

Which is just one of a few strange things I've noticed about this place so far. Not only are the paintings devoid of colour, but there's a ridiculous amount of security in here at all hours of the day as well. There's a larger ratio of security than to actual customers and I'm pretty sure there's more security here than there is for the Mona Lisa in Paris. I've got no idea why. Not to be rude, but this art wasn't exactly painted by Vincent Van Gogh, or Pablo Picasso. I very much doubt anybody is going to try to steal any of these depressing pieces, but perhaps the owner is just super protective over their work.

The other weird thing is that every room is filled with some sort of art whether that be paintings or sculptures, apart from one nearer the back of the gallery which has only bare white walls and the wooden flooring. There's no signage offering any clues as to what the room is supposed to be, but I don't usually spend long in there anyway because the fresh coats of white paint hurt my eyes. It's difficult to tell with things like this if it's simply an empty room or is supposed to be an abstract and intentional stylistic choice.

Empty white room is what one of my notebook pages say—that's helpful.

I also find that the dark stairway in the lobby, leading to the second floor is actually out of bounds. There's a rickety chain link tied across the two bannisters prohibiting entrance, and I've noticed at the top of it is a dark blue door lettered with the bold white words STAFF ONLY. I find it strange that a staff room would have to be physically blocked off—surely, it's common sense that you wouldn't go in there if you're just a customer.

There are several things about this place which seem a little out of the ordinary, but I wouldn't have anything to compare it to exactly. I don't regular at other art galleries and the next one nearest to my apartment costs an extra twenty dollars in cab fares. The artwork here is definitely unsettling, but I can't stop coming back. I've asked Jess along a few times, all of which she's turned down because she isn't interested. This means my art journey is a lonely one, and nobody is beside me to distract me from the snippets of Tyler's voice echoing in my mind,

"Elise, can you go find something else to do? You're like a spare part stood there."

"Sorry Elise, not today. I'm going to paint Madison at the studio."

"Why don't you just stick to music? You can't even tell the difference between an oil or acrylic canvas."

"Only intelligent people can decipher the meaning of paintings quickly, if it isn't coming immediately to you then maybe stick your pretty little brain to analysing sound waves."

Tyler is my ex-boyfriend from Julliard. It's hard not to get caught up in memories of him saying awful things to me in places like this, because he's a painter. He was my first real introduction to the world of art, except he barely let me get my foot through the door.

He would constantly shame my lack of art knowledge, and he would never paint me. Not that I deserve or desire to be painted, but it was hurtful watching him paint random girls from campus and never once asking his own damn girlfriend who supported his endeavours like a loyal puppy. I have my suspicions that he and those girls were doing more than just painting at the studio, but I don't have the energy in me to harbour any ill feelings towards him now. He's just like a grubby piece of gum I can't scrape from the grooves in the bottom of my sneakers.

This doesn't mean his words don't still sting me though—any mention of my limited artistic knowledge and all my past insecurities come bubbling back to the surface. Maybe it's a silly thing to be insecure about, but when somebody you loved constantly reminded you that you aren't good enough to understand the thing they love, that sort of hurt can follow you around for a long time.

Whilst I'm busy succumbing to the patronising memory of Tyler's insults, a flash of movement catches my eye and breaks my train of thought. Sat on the lobby sectional seating, jotting notes in my notebook, I glance towards the stairs and past the chain to the STAFF ONLY door where the suited man from a few weeks ago bounds into view, sweaty and distressed. Today he's wearing a plain black blouse which is unbuttoned near the top and rolled to his elbows exposing inked arms. He cards his fingers almost anxiously through his brown curls and his forehead glitters with perspiration as he stares hard at the door like he's unsure whether or not to open it. Even from all the way back down here, I can see the rapid rise and fall of his chest. He's out of breath—why would you be out of breath in an art gallery? He presses down on his knuckles, cracking them one by one as though preparing for something. The sound makes me cringe and I glance about to see where my best hiding spot would be right now—maybe behind a large plant pot— but there's no use. I'm paralysed in this velvet seat.

The man grabs the door handle and the sheer strength of his grip turns his knuckles white. He opens the door slowly and steps inside, but just as he's about to yank it shut—he spots me. My blood runs cold as his motion comes to an abrupt halt. I'm met again with that predatory green gaze. It doesn't matter how far away he is from you, one look into those eyes and it feels as though you're a rabbit caught up in bushes with nowhere to go, about to be eaten alive by a pack of wolves.

I half expect him to start yelling a string of expletives at me again, but as I grip my pencil helplessly, he glares at me and delivers a short but concise message. "It's closing time." He shouts wickedly, wanting to rid me from the building.

"Don't shout at me!" I call back up the stairs a little too quickly, catching him off guard too. But I'm seriously getting tired of the vendetta this man has against me—what did I even do to him? His shoulders stiffen and he turns back around to me, passing me the most threatening glare it feels like I've already been murdered. If this was a hunt and chase, he would have caught me by now every time.

If that didn't scare the living daylights out of me enough, then the blood dripping from his fingertips and down the door handle onto the floor certainly is. It's such a stark contrast to the blacks and whites around us that I'd almost forgotten a colour like red could even exist.

Where the fuck did that blood come from?

There's a hint of a smirk pulling at his raspberry lips as my stomach sloshes with terror, I stand up forgetting about all of my belongings and leg it to the door with heated cheeks. The staff only door slams as I fall out onto the street. 

There are too many off-putting things about American Gothic Art Gallery, but the workers having bloodied hands in chained off areas might just be at the top of them.