aesthetics

Overawed

Part One - Overawed

Atmospheric Songs
Incarnation song - Chris and Thomas

A new pop-up art gallery had just opened up, I had seen the advertising in the college paper. It was one of my many excuses to duck out of the dorms to avoid syllabus study.

It was March. The warm, subtle air would still call for a light jacket and my worn out winter boots that sat beside my door would beg to be worn one last time before being packed away for yet another season.

I walked there, it wasn't too long, and I hadn't had the money to purchase a car. The slight breeze pushing my hair behind my shoulders as my feet crunched upon the final autumn leaves that littered the path.

Upon arriving, I paid my $2 entry fee and stepped through the large double doors. It was cold in the venue, air conditioner pumping through the open space.

The arching roof let sunlight glimmer through, discarding the need for lighting and the pristine, white floors a striking contrast to my tattered, dark boots. I had been before, my creative writing teacher thought the space was perfect for level headed, open minded thinking for great pieces of writing, which was true, as I had come whenever I was stressed to help relieve my clouded mind.

The exhibition had a wide selection of art, from the 3D drawings to LED light shows and a young woman with blonde, braided hair playing soft piano in the corner. At first I was stunned, art came in so many forms, some I had never seen as I explored the many rooms of the massive display. I strolled around, briefly glancing at a few pieces that caught my eye.

At times I felt out of place, the wealthy would all huddle around a particular piece, trying to prove the large extent of their bank accounts by outbidding one another, I'm sure the artists were ecstatic.

Half an hour after I had watched two men - of obvious wealth - with their wives hanging off their arm, bid and bid for painting after painting, quite clearly trying to cling into their pride, I say myself on a long rectangular block.

I watched guests file in and out before me. For every tenth person that walked by me, I would create a background story for. It ranged from stressed mother trying to show her kids there's more to life than a screen to a white collar worker on her lunch break, delicately sipping on a juice cleanse that was meant to rid of her muffin top.

Time passed and I soon fell into my own little world of apathy. I would sit, legs crossed, deep in thought, day dreaming about a life where she were a successful artist, instead of a life where she was an aspiring writer. One person had even stopped to take a photo of her, thinking she were part of the art.

"Sir, could you please stop taking photos of me, I am not a part of the art." I stated, standing from my seated position.

He didn't speak English, I could tell by the confused look he had given me.

I resorted to hand signals, crossing and waving my arms, probably looking like a fool. Eventually I gave up, sighing and sitting down again and letting him take more pictures of me.

Then he emerged from behind a sculpture, in just skinny jeans and a matching black shirt. I watched him walk around for a few minutes, shaking hands. I wondered what brought him here and if he would come back again. I even wondered if he were an artwork himself. His tall, lean frame and sharp facial features almost made the thought somewhat convincing.

His eyes, green, caught mine for the quickest second before retreating back to their previous place. Although the action was minuscule, it still caused a sharp intake of breath on my end.