Dave's Painting

The paintings can record the passing of the days by the quality of light through the windows. Though their caretakers ensure the sunshine never shines on them, they can sense the light and the shortening and lengthening of the shadows. They hear the lectures of the docents trying to explain them, and they desperately wish that they could talk to the people passing by and tell their stories. They cannot, so they sit silently, watching the pretentious art collectors, the curious art historians, and the disinterested, unaffected schoolchildren.

At five in the evening, the museum closes, but the cleaners and curators and all the other people don’t clear out until later. They turn out the lights and the museum sinks deep into the relaxing darkness, the only lights the stop sign red of the security cameras. One sound shatters the stillness: the soft scuff of Dave’s shoes as he paces the smooth wood floors. His standard issue flashlight carves swathes of light across the walls and paintings. Dave thinks he is so lucky to have gotten this security guard job. It pays well, and in a few months, he’ll have enough money to buy an engagement ring for his girlfriend, Lindsay.

The paintings watch Dave. They like him because he likes them and he does his job protecting them. Some of the other security guards just watch Jerry Springer reruns on the television in the security office, but Dave always comes to visit them, making his rounds every half-hour like clockwork. The swinging light of the camera comes to stop on one of Dave’s favorite paintings. He doesn’t know much about the painting, but he does know that the girl in it looks just like Lindsay. Lindsay’s hair shines the same way in the light, like honey when you hold it up to the light. Lindsay has the same softness in her arms, and the slope of her nose is the same. The girl looks so sad, though, and it would break his heart to see Lindsay like this.

Dave imagines that the letter in her hands is from her lover, who has left her all alone in the hotel room. Maybe they had arranged to meet, and she had traveled so far, her heart brimming over with excitement at the prospect of seeing her beloved. She is so thrilled that when she pulls her clothes off, she just tosses them, her hat on the dresser, and her dress on the chair. Then she turns and sees the letter waiting there for her, propped up on the pillow. He imagines that she is crushed now, that she will never recover from this loss.

He sadly looks again at the painting, shaking his head slightly, as if to clear the cobwebs, and moves off, his shoes resuming their soft thud against the floor. The painting is left alone in the dark again.

Months pass, and Dave passes the painting every night, but he doesn’t look at it anymore. Then for a few weeks, Dave doesn’t show up. When he finally comes back, the paintings see that Dave has a ring on his finger now, and knows he must have finally married Lindsay. Dave whistles on his rounds now, and instead of their usual slow patter, his shoes have a new more energetic sound. He stops at happy families now, mothers cradling babies, fathers lifting high their children, and all the generations gathered at one dinner table.

Dave misses his rounds one night, and on the next, nothing is the same. His ring is gone and all that is left is the pale circle and the slight indent where it used to be. His stride slows; his flashlight doesn’t hit the paintings. It moves morosely across the floorboards followed by the movement of his eyes. His old alertness is destroyed, now thieves could move a truck through the wide rooms of the museum and gather every single painting without him even looking up.

Finally, one night, he notices that the frame is crooked. One of the cleaning people probably knocked it; they do that sometimes. He straightens it and really sees it for the first time in weeks. The girl still looks like Lindsay, but Dave imagines something else.

The girl in the painting holds a letter in her hands that she has written on the hotel stationery. Her lover will be out of the shower soon, and she still has to get dressed. She looks so sad because she is preparing to leave him there alone in the hotel. The letter doesn’t say enough, but she can’t bear to face him, to see him when she tells him she has found someone else. She will put on the dress that she has put out on the chair, pull on her hat, and close the door quickly. He will hear the sound of the door and come out of the bathroom, to find only one suitcase and the letter on the dresser. He will still be able to smell her perfume.

Dave looks at the painting crossly, but his angry face is only trying to hide his tears, even from the paintings. He walks quickly back to the security guard office where, under the buzzing glow of the fluorescent lights, he pulls the letter Lindsay had left propped up their kitchen counter out of his wallet and reads it again, trying to find some bit of truth in her words.

Years pass, and Dave retires. He comes back for the museum’s 100th anniversary. It is not the dark still place that he remembers, but a crowded place filled with light and the energy of dozens of people, pretending to know what the paintings mean. His feet, now clad in thick brown orthopedic shoes, shuffle across the worn floorboards on their familiar route. He stops in front of what he now thinks of as Lindsay’s painting. He looks up at it and remembers her, his first love. A man steps up next to him and they stand in amicable silence for a few moments.

“Do you like this painting?” says the man.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Dave replies, a little bit embarrassed. “Personally, I don’t know anything about technique, or light, or any of that stuff, but I guess I like it.”

“Well, I think it is very good. The lack of the detail that comes with close observation really allows the painting’s atmosphere and lighting to stand on its own. The white wall lets the other colors like the green of the chair really pop. And of course, the girl’s obvious sadness is an excellent depiction of the human condition…”

The man keeps talking, his cultured voice dissecting the painting. Dave tunes him out. He thinks that the man might be missing the point of the painting and trying to cover it up with words that mean nothing. The human condition? The phrase doesn’t seem to mean anything at all. Dave turns and leaves the room. The painting watches him go, and resigns itself to the meaningless chatter of the art critic, clouding its meaning.

Dave stops in the gift shop on his way out of the museum. He finds a reproduction of the painting impressively framed and he imagines how it would look on his wall. He shakes his head and puts it back, knowing it would be ridiculous in his small shabby apartment. He turns to go, but sees a postcard with the painting on it. This would be perfect. He hands over a few dollars to the bored salesgirl, who rings up his purchase and mumbles “Have a nice day” without ever changing her expression or even looking at him. He takes the postcard home and sticks it to the wall near his recliner with a bit of tape. He looks at it sometimes and remembers Lindsay, all the things they did together, and how much he loved her.





***The painting in this poem is Edward Hopper's "Hotel Room." You can see it by doing an image search on Google for <hopper hotel room>.