Love & Other Ephemeral Arts

Chapter 1

Being a perfectionist can be a blessing or a curse.
But when you're an Art college student with an unbearably high number of projects it's without any doubt a curse.
I confess I envied the others, able to happily enjoy imperfection, while I spent hours sweating my blood out to make every art piece flawless, or at least try to until my eyes and hands started to feel as if they'd just fall off. Still, the result was pretty clear: seldom sincere congratulations, and a sleep lack I wouldn't even be able to catch up in a hundred lazy-house-cat lives. But the problem was I couldn't help myself. And for that same reason all I could think about right now was all that unfinished work piled up on my bedroom's desk, all due in tomorrow, of course, but none of it good enough for what I considered half decent.

So what was I doing in the Museum of Timeless Art instead of at home making some art of my own? The answer would have most likely been procrastination, if it hadn't been for the fact that there was an exhibition of my favorite art style.

I couldn't even believe the place was actually open this late on a Sunday. I didn't visit the local museum much, despite my artistic condition. The truth is, as vain as it may sound, the art of other people didn't interest me as much as my own, especially that of those contemporary artists who actually made it to important galleries. Cause let's face it, most of it was trash.

Nevertheless, there were some works worthy of being in museums. So I did have to come when Dianne texted me earlier today to tell me there was an exhibition on Victorian art which included one of my favorite paintings. I couldn't turn my back on that. There was something about the Victorian style which drew my attention. Was it the stories it revealed? Or the perfection with which some artists had made those stories from poems or mythology come to life? Whatever it was, it had enough power to draw me out from home and guarantee that I spent one more night working instead of sleeping: a tiring though not impossible practice thanks to coffee.

It turned out the exhibition had actually been there for a month and it would just be up until Monday - tomorrow. In case you're wondering, no, I'm not very put on any type of event. That was more like Dianne's job.

I left the museum's reception and walked passed one of the security personnel members, who was drawn out from his boredom by staring at my rather paint-splashed jeans - handmade, of course -. I was used to people finding them eccentric by now.
I walked through the corridors and, with a little map between my hands, tried to make my way through the hallways to the room I was looking for. My garnet converse squeaked against the marble floor. I hated it when they did that.
Fortunately, no one would stare accusingly at my shoes, as it was just me through the empty passages. Or so it seemed.

I had seen some people back at the reception, but the majority were leaving and the others were headed to the other side, probably to other more popular exhibitions.
Still, I kept looking sideways and back, both making sure I wasn't missing the place and looking around for any sight of visitors, unsure of whether there was anyone at all. All I could see was a deserted extension behind me. The place looked empty, but it didn't feel like it.

It smelled of oil paints and wood, which reminded me of some of the rooms back at college. Only here there was actually some peace.

At last I was able to recognise a white sign, reading: Victorian Art Compilation. I stopped at the room's threshold. It lead to a wide lounge, walls the color of whine. The floor changed to being wooden, and as soon as I set a foot inside the squeaks from my shoes were replaced by the creek of the wood under my body.
I breathed in and closed my eyes, the smell of old timber filling my nostrils. A marvellous exhibition all to myself. I smiled. I might not sleep that night, but it would be worth it.