Art

         I regretfully agreed to visit an exhibit of paintings put on by a long-time friend of mine after declining invitations to his four previous exhibitions. It’s not that I’m art-averse, I just prefer to spend the brevity of my weekends completing errands I can’t complete during the week or taking small trips with my fiancé. In addition, my work was particularly cumbersome at the time and art shows just required an expenditure of energy I couldn’t afford at that point. I guess, truth be told, I’m also art-averse.
         Nevertheless, I was mailed an invitation in early autumn, and beside the printed portion was a hand written note. “Rudy, I know you’re busy, but it would mean a lot to me if you stopped by.”
         The artist’s name was Andrew and we had been friends since elementary school, although we had admittedly drifted apart after high school. Andrew had always been a dark and depressed artistic type. When his first girlfriend broke up with him in sophomore year he burned a cigarette into his thigh. He vowed he would do the same thing for all the ex’s in his future to remind himself of the pain of break-ups. I never saw him do it again, but anytime we were in gym class, I always tried to get real low so I could see the inside of his thigh. Someone always caught me before I was ever able to get a good look.
         After high school I went on to study finance in college before securing a job as an analyst for a large private equity firm and he went to art school. I am engaged and he is still single. I just put a down payment on a spacious three bedroom house in a nice suburban neighborhood and he lives alone in a studio apartment. You could say I should be happier than Andrew, but it’s only ostensibly. My depression cuts deeper to the core of cynicism than his. I almost envy his ability to exploit his inner dissatisfaction for artistic gain.
         So, my initial reaction after reading the invitation was to think up excuses. Spending a week or two wavering on a proper excuse, the guilt affronted by the handwritten note finally caught up to me. I backed out of some wedding planning plans I had made with my fiancé. She was disappointed, but understanding. “I think it’s nice you’ve stayed friends for this many years.” She said with a smile. She did not seem to keep her friends for very long. Since I had known her she had gone through 6 or 7 sets of new friends. I wondered why I couldn’t be more like her.
         The exhibition was early on a Saturday morning at the Antchagno International Art Institute. Naturally, I awoke with grave apprehension at the onset of the day’s entertainment. A heavy spring rain invoked a thought of one final last-minute excuse, but my future wife directed me to an umbrella in the closet and I rather recalcitrantly sauntered to my new, black, all-leather interior Acura TL. Parking was impossible. I nearly ran over an elderly couple trying to get to an open parking spot. I pulled the umbrella out from the backseat and was drenched by the rain figuring out how to open it. I climbed the fifty some odd stairs to the institute and at the entrance was greeted by an elderly volunteer who exchanged a small tag for my umbrella so that I could reclaim it on my exit. I told her I was an old friend of the artist’s and she dispassionately motioned for the next visitor.
         The institute was funded by the estate of a wealthy industrialist and philanthropist who coincidentally had also been a major client at some point in my firm’s history. My bosses’ boss had a photograph with Mr. Antchagno decorating his office. Based on the suits they were wearing and the cigarettes they were smoking the photograph was probably taken in the late seventies. Mr. Antchagno died in 1996. If you look carefully at the photograph you can see just the fringe of a stripper pole along the left-hand side.
         Andrew looked surprised to see me. We shook hands and caught each other up on our lives in fifteen words or less. He beckoned me into the gallery, excused himself to attend to some art critics who had just arrived and said he would catch up more with me later. He emphasized once more how much my presence meant to him. I encouraged him to attend to the critics and I turned my attention to the thirty or so paintings covering each of three rooms. Deep regret set in.
         The paintings were presented in small groups. Andrew had drafted a small poem next to each painting which as he had explained in the invitation was supposed to add an unseen “4th dimension” to the artwork. One painting featured a man sketched out with charcoal staring at himself in the mirror. Both the man’s face and the man’s reflection had been painted the same shade of blue such that one could not be distinguished from the other. The poem read as follows:

Everything Blue.
Blue mornings. Blue evenings.
Blue days. Blue weeks.
Blue months. Blue years.
Blue life.
Although the doctors say I’m colorblind.

         Andrew had always been a bit melodramatic, but I guess that’s what makes great art. Or in this case arguably passable art. The other paintings displayed similar themes: a man’s reflection on a tear drop, a frowning astronaut on the outskirts of the Earth’s gravitational pull, a bathing woman writing what purportedly appears to be a suicide note and using the bathwater as ink ...everything used a blue palette. I was really quite disturbed with the whole exhibit and could not wait to get out of there. After quickly glancing over the final paintings I found Andrew explaining a painting to what looked like a group of art students. I interrupted their conversation, thanked him for the invitation and expressed my sincerest feedback. “Andrew, you’ve done it again. You’re a genius.”
          He thanked me for coming and shook my hand. I handed my exit tag to the dispassionate elderly volunteer at the front. As I waited for her to retrieve my umbrella I took one final look at the first painting I had seen with the blue man and the blue reflection.
         There was much going through my mind at that point. My fiancé and I still had to pick a date, send out our wedding invitations and arrange all the details. Her father, who I didn’t care much for, but had recently suffered minor heart complications, was coming to visit in the evening and I had promised my fiancé I would pick up groceries on the way home so we could prepare a healthy meal for him. Work had been stressful recently as well, but I had heard through the grapevine that I might be up for a promotion if I kept my feet on the fire. I had appointments scheduled all next week with the doctor, my insurance agent, our accountant, and the wedding caterer.
         My thoughts stopped rambling for a moment and I fixated on the blue man.
         Suddenly, a little smirk started in my heart and grew outward. Before I knew it I had exploded into laughter and I had to plant my face in my arm and run outside. After several minutes of laughing uncontrollably I pounded a tree to compose myself. I looked toward the museum and at the top of the stairs was Andrew shaking his head toward me in disappointment. Several art students had followed him outside and shared his grimace.
         I straightened my posture, and looked back apologetically. Leaning on the tree, I shouted, “I’m so sorry Andrew! It’s just that. . .” and I paused. “It’s just that your painting. . .the one with the blue man’s reflection?” I recited the poem:

Everything Blue.
Blue mornings. Blue evenings.
Blue days. Blue weeks.
Blue months. Blue years.
Blue life.
Although the doctors say I’m colorblind.

         “Yes?” He affirmatively nodded with his arms folded across his chest and beamed, “What about it?”
          Andrew and the students started descending the stairs toward me.
         “It’s just that. . . I actually am colorblind.”
         “Can you see blue?” one of the art students asked.
         "It looks more like green." Everyone laughed.