Crossed Paths

The exhibition was heading into a direction of disaster. The central heating in the venue wasn’t working and leaving pockets of cold air throughout the loft. He could hear viewers sneezing and coughing.

The viewers only filled about thirty percent of the gallery capacity, pathetic really. Why would anyone wanted to spend a Friday night after a long ass day of work to look at some abstract expressionist paintings from a no name artist and a fresh graduate? He knew he was no Pollock; he didn’t want to be Pollock or his work identified as Pollock alike.

His work had a floral theme, always, even the viewers couldn’t tell because they were abstracts. He had always fixated on flowers especially the little ones like baby-breath, forget-me-not, fairy-foxglove and windflowers.

These are beautiful paintings, don’t you think? A euphonious voice interrupted his negative thoughts about his exhibition.

I feel the artist is trying to tell the world how much they love the seemingly invisible things in life. She spoke again.

Do you know much about the painter? He asked without looking at her. And he knew they were both focusing on the painting in front of them, for some reason, he just knew that she wasn’t looking at him.

Not at all. I literally walked in here to get warm and stumbled into an exhibition. Life is like that, unexpected pleasure.

He could hear the smile and even joy from her voice.

And I try not to read or research the artist before I look at their paintings anyway. I want to really see them through their work rather than filtered opinions, if you know what I mean.

I kinda know what you mean. You want to experience first-hand the inner world of the artist rather than an interpretation from others.

Correct! For all I know, this painter could be a granny with saggy tits. But she is beautiful because her paintings are exquisitely beautiful.

You really think so?

What? The granny with saggy tits, or the paintings are exquisite?

Now the left side of his face was burning, he knew she was looking at him. He turned to her with an uncontrollable grin, the painting, and the granny too.

I am not much an art person; I mean I am not professionally trained. These paintings look abstract to me. For some reason, I feel I saw little flowers or petals. Maybe this led me to believe the painter is a she, or feminine. The saggy tits are just my bad humour. She pulled her face and he love that witty look.

Excuse me, may I borrow the artist from you, mam? He was pulled away from her by the gallery curator to the rugged area which served as a stage. It was time for him to deliver the thank you for coming speech and close the exhibition.

I want to say thank you to you all for coming tonight to my first exhibition. I am sorry that if you end up catching a cold because of the stuffed central heating. I will suggest you buy one of my paintings to wipe your noise with, I know the paper I used, they are suitable for sanding your nose.

Jokes aside, I didn’t expect anyone would come tonight, and yet you are here. You may not get my paintings, I know, I know they are not everyone’s cup of tea. But I feel supported, and I thank you from the bottom of my heart.

I know at least one of you get me as an artist and what I try to express and share, and I am grateful for you, and I am glad you stumbled into my exhibition. He looked at her when he said that last few sentences.