indie » styles

second

day the seventh

Only Wren's mother would make her get an internship before she was even in college. While other teens her age were getting drunk on the beach or having road trips out west, she was stuck dealing with art snobs at the only gallery in town. Her dearest mom already disapproved of her aspirations for an art degree at SCAD; Wren felt like this was her punishment.

Her boss was a failed artist who had no choice but to sell art that wasn't her own. It resulted in a bitter woman who resented anyone with the chance to have what she'd already lost. The only reason Wren even received the internship was due to a meeting between Linda and her mother, a topic she wouldn't bring up to either parties any time soon.

The air conditioning was on full blast and Wren shivered despite the faded sweatshirt that bared the name of her middle school soccer team. Wren never understood the reason for air conditioning, a window would simply do. Although, Wren was cold in any weather under the temperature of 70.

A ding from the door caused her eyes to flick over, surprised to see her curly-haired neighbor step inside. Wren pushed back the stray hairs coming out of her low ponytail as if that itself would improve her condition. It, in fact, didn't matter what she looked like for the boy wasn't even looking in her direction; merely moving from painting to painting with a slow walk. His hands were clasped behind his back, fingers full of silver rings.

Wren's eyes followed his movements, wanting him to come up to her but at the same time wanting him to stay away. It had been seven days since the awkward interaction and Wren had barely seen him. The only glimpses she caught were of him getting in and out of his beat-up pickup truck. He never went outside despite the summer weather, something Wren noticed due to the fact she was often riding her bike over to friends houses who lived in the neighborhood.

She didn't understand the strange transfixion she had on the boy, but if she had to guess it was simply his good looks. Wren had never seen someone so attractive since she lived in a small town her whole life and rarely left it. She imagined this was what the boys would look like in college; mature and beautiful.

Wren didn't notice she was staring until the boy turned around and met her eyes, a sheepish smile being drawn to his lips. She refused to be embarrassed about getting caught; she worked here, it was only natural she watched the costumers.

"Hello neighbor," he called from across the room. His voice bounced off the walls, causing her to bite back a smile. If her boss was here, the boy would be instantly shooed away and Wren would be yelled at for letting a hooligan inside. But thankfully the scorned woman was at the hospital with her father who Wren couldn't believe was still alive.

"How may I help you?" Wren asked back loudly, relieved that the gallery couldn't afford security cameras.

"I need you to come over here." He answered, making a beckoning motion with his hand. "I need an expert's opinion."

Wren pursed her lips together and hopped off the stool behind the counter.

Once she approached him, the boy looked at the painting in front of him with his thumb and pointer finger against his chin.

"And what might it be you need an opinion on." Wren had never been one who could formulate a sentence around someone she felt the least bit of attraction to. While most girls could openly flirt and joke around potential interests, Wren found her mind go blank and was unable to think of the least bit interesting thing to say.

"What does this painting mean?" He gestured to the giant canvas in front of them which showed a sand dollar as well as a shredded dollar bill surrounded by trash which was washed up on the shore.

"What do you think it means?" Wren answered.

"That there is trash on beaches as well as sand dollars." He looked at her and raised a dark eyebrow.

"I mean, literally yes. But I think the artist meant to depict that we as a society take more interest in money than what we're doing to the environment. When in fact the currency of nature, the sand dollar, is more long-lasting than that of paper money which can easily be torn up and will never be seen again once you hand it over. The trash just shows all the waste that we buy and throw out, taking a toll on the earth which ultimately gave it to us." Wren couldn't stop the words from tumbling out of her mouth. When she caught Harry staring at her with a blank expression, she quickly added. "Or at least that's what I think it means."

"Hm," was all he said as his attention focused back in front of him. He was silent for a moment and Wren didn't quite know what to do. Before she had a chance to decide, the boy spoke again. "I guess I've just never really got art. I just assumed people saw things and painted them. I was never able to reveal deeper meanings and thought that long-winded insights were just something professors and psychologists slapped on for show."

"I mean, of course, artists paint some things literally and people create a false perception that the artist never intended. But does it really matter? Art is supposed to make you feel something, no matter how you bring upon the feeling." Wren felt embarrassed that she was practically lecturing the stranger. She just found when talking about art she couldn't stop. It wasn't as if her friends really asked about it, God knows her mother would never bring it up. The art gallery was the only place she could properly indulge in her hobby, although most people simply wanted to buy expensive paintings to flaunt their wealth and had no real interest in the art itself.

"Open interpretation, of course." The boy smiled at her. "Now, do you happen to have any indie paintings?"

**

what a dork. idk art so if any of this is stupid i apologize. i know you're supposed to write what you know but i don't know anything.

- joy