Finally, I came to the small collection of Georgia O'Keeffe paintings and turned into a small alcove on the opposite side. My heart was pounding, and I opened my eyes, wide and focused. The first thing I saw was a painting straight in front of me. It was heavily stylized (in a very cool way), but I recognized the scene immediately. There was a ring of gray, mechanical towers adorned with cogs and pistons, and in the very middle was a massive machine that appeared to be opening, and a bright light was spilling out. This was it. This was my dream.
In front of the painting were several display shelves stacked around and on top of each other, and on all of the shelves was a series of nearly a dozen plastic figurines no taller than 8 inches. It was an exhibit of urban vinyl--designer toys, I've heard them called. All of the figures were sculpted with the same stylized flair as the painting above, with an exaggerated geometry. Sharp edges were rounded, and the colors were vivid and shining. But I definitely recognized some of the images.
Front and center was the cable-thing I'd seen on the flyer. There was another that was little more than a roughly shaped gray blob, and one that was covered with several nodes painted bright yellow. There were more that at least bore a resemblance to things I've seen from the corner of my eye. The board below the display shelves bore the title this invisible machine, and in small script at the bottom was the name again--Evan Grayson.
I knew then that I had to find Grayson. I had to know what he knew. For the first time I could remember, I felt a genuine connection with another person, even though I'd never met him. I was about to head back to the information booth to find out all I could about the artist when I saw a stack of brochures at the mouth of the alcove detailing the exhibit and all its stops on the tour. Right below Roswell was the next city--Los Angeles. The opening there was scheduled for the day after tomorrow at the Fisher Gallery of the University of Southern California, and according to the brochure, the artist himself would be there.
It looks like I'm going to LA after all. What are the chances of that? Of knowing exactly where I had to be? Of finding this place and this exhibit? Honestly, what are the chances of that? My answers are there. I know they are. I'm more determined than ever.
I don't know how long I spent looking at each individual vinyl figurine. Eventually, I noticed someone sidling up behind me. It was the woman in the pantsuit, smiling at me.
"Beautiful, aren't they?" she asked.
I nodded. "Yeah. Isn't this a little unusual, though? I mean, do you normally display work like this? I would've figured this place focused on more traditional forms of art."
"You have a point, but Mr. Grayson lobbied our board of directors very intensely to schedule an exhibition here. As you said, urban vinyl isn't exactly the type of art you would expect to find in a gallery like this. It's also typically produced on a larger scale, so you don't typically see one of a kind pieces."
"It's still a form of sculpting, though, isn't it?"
"Absolutely. In fact, though the product may not appear very traditional, the artistic process, as the artist himself demonstrated, is virtually indistinguishable from any other form of sculpting."
The lady liked to talk, I noticed, but she seemed to be one of those people who didn't have much to say-- talking for the sake of talking. It got on my nerves, but this was the longest conversation I'd had in days. Sometimes you just need to hear a human voice.
"So how did the exhibit end up here?"
"Well, Mr. Grayson assured us that these are the original pieces and are much larger than the ones available for purchase, and after careful consideration, we decided to permit his collection to be displayed, if only for a few days. He really won us over with his imagination. Just look at some of these! It's no wonder he wanted them displayed here. They do look like little aliens, don't they?"
"Yeah, I suppose they do."
"So what's your guess?" she asked me.
"Excuse me?"
"Your interpretation of the work."
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe instead of characters, they're supposed to be portraits, like a representation of the world around the artist. Maybe he's saying that we're the aliens."
The woman nodded absently. "That's an interesting way of looking at it. Whatever they mean, we sure are going to miss having them around here."
"It's a good thing I came here when I did, then," I said.
"Oh, are you a fan of Mr. Grayson's work?"
"Actually, I've never seen it before in my life, but I like what I see."
"Wonderful!" She smiled widely and patted my shoulder. "I love to see young people taking an interest in art."
She looked me over. I could almost see the thoughts in her head whirling and clicking.
"Shouldn't you be in school right now?" she asked.
"I'm doing research on Georgia O'Keeffe for an art history class I'm taking. It was my teacher's idea to take a look at her work in person."
I lied. I think I'm getting better at it.
Lucky for me the O'Keeffe exhibit was close enough to point. Thank God I'm one of the 14-year-olds that actually knows who O'Keeffe is. The lady in the pantsuit seemed to have bought my story. There was a satisfied grin on her face, and she patted my shoulder once again.
"That's a terrific idea," she said. "Do you need any help? I know all about her work."
I'm sure she did.
"No thanks," I said. "I thought I'd take the opportunity to look around. Looks like there's a lot to see, and I'm always looking for inspiration."
"Are you an artist, yourself?"
"Something like that. I'm a writer."
It was a truth. It felt kind of strange to say one aloud. But there was a sudden gratifying sensation in the words. I am a writer, after all. It's what I'm doing now. It's what I love. It's what keeps me from going completely crazy.
"That's great," she said. "If you need any more help, just let me know."
She wandered off.
I may not have remembered the conversation word-for-word, but that was the gist of it. I'm getting better at remembering, too. I wonder if that's all part of being a writer--a liar with a good memory. I know I haven't had many conversations lately, but I've tried memorizing the ones I have had, along with how the things around me look and what people wear. I try to keep all of that right at the top of my mind and the tip of my tongue, and then I write them down. The bits and pieces I've forgotten are left up to my imagination, I suppose, and I have to try to remain honest when I interpret them. But what about other writers? It's not like there's anyone out there with perfect total recall, as far as I know anyway. Does that mean we have to scrutinize everything, or just accept the fact that there's no such thing as a reliable narrator?
In front of the painting were several display shelves stacked around and on top of each other, and on all of the shelves was a series of nearly a dozen plastic figurines no taller than 8 inches. It was an exhibit of urban vinyl--designer toys, I've heard them called. All of the figures were sculpted with the same stylized flair as the painting above, with an exaggerated geometry. Sharp edges were rounded, and the colors were vivid and shining. But I definitely recognized some of the images.
Front and center was the cable-thing I'd seen on the flyer. There was another that was little more than a roughly shaped gray blob, and one that was covered with several nodes painted bright yellow. There were more that at least bore a resemblance to things I've seen from the corner of my eye. The board below the display shelves bore the title this invisible machine, and in small script at the bottom was the name again--Evan Grayson.
I knew then that I had to find Grayson. I had to know what he knew. For the first time I could remember, I felt a genuine connection with another person, even though I'd never met him. I was about to head back to the information booth to find out all I could about the artist when I saw a stack of brochures at the mouth of the alcove detailing the exhibit and all its stops on the tour. Right below Roswell was the next city--Los Angeles. The opening there was scheduled for the day after tomorrow at the Fisher Gallery of the University of Southern California, and according to the brochure, the artist himself would be there.
It looks like I'm going to LA after all. What are the chances of that? Of knowing exactly where I had to be? Of finding this place and this exhibit? Honestly, what are the chances of that? My answers are there. I know they are. I'm more determined than ever.
I don't know how long I spent looking at each individual vinyl figurine. Eventually, I noticed someone sidling up behind me. It was the woman in the pantsuit, smiling at me.
"Beautiful, aren't they?" she asked.
I nodded. "Yeah. Isn't this a little unusual, though? I mean, do you normally display work like this? I would've figured this place focused on more traditional forms of art."
"You have a point, but Mr. Grayson lobbied our board of directors very intensely to schedule an exhibition here. As you said, urban vinyl isn't exactly the type of art you would expect to find in a gallery like this. It's also typically produced on a larger scale, so you don't typically see one of a kind pieces."
"It's still a form of sculpting, though, isn't it?"
"Absolutely. In fact, though the product may not appear very traditional, the artistic process, as the artist himself demonstrated, is virtually indistinguishable from any other form of sculpting."
The lady liked to talk, I noticed, but she seemed to be one of those people who didn't have much to say-- talking for the sake of talking. It got on my nerves, but this was the longest conversation I'd had in days. Sometimes you just need to hear a human voice.
"So how did the exhibit end up here?"
"Well, Mr. Grayson assured us that these are the original pieces and are much larger than the ones available for purchase, and after careful consideration, we decided to permit his collection to be displayed, if only for a few days. He really won us over with his imagination. Just look at some of these! It's no wonder he wanted them displayed here. They do look like little aliens, don't they?"
"Yeah, I suppose they do."
"So what's your guess?" she asked me.
"Excuse me?"
"Your interpretation of the work."
"Oh, I don't know. Maybe instead of characters, they're supposed to be portraits, like a representation of the world around the artist. Maybe he's saying that we're the aliens."
The woman nodded absently. "That's an interesting way of looking at it. Whatever they mean, we sure are going to miss having them around here."
"It's a good thing I came here when I did, then," I said.
"Oh, are you a fan of Mr. Grayson's work?"
"Actually, I've never seen it before in my life, but I like what I see."
"Wonderful!" She smiled widely and patted my shoulder. "I love to see young people taking an interest in art."
She looked me over. I could almost see the thoughts in her head whirling and clicking.
"Shouldn't you be in school right now?" she asked.
"I'm doing research on Georgia O'Keeffe for an art history class I'm taking. It was my teacher's idea to take a look at her work in person."
I lied. I think I'm getting better at it.
Lucky for me the O'Keeffe exhibit was close enough to point. Thank God I'm one of the 14-year-olds that actually knows who O'Keeffe is. The lady in the pantsuit seemed to have bought my story. There was a satisfied grin on her face, and she patted my shoulder once again.
"That's a terrific idea," she said. "Do you need any help? I know all about her work."
I'm sure she did.
"No thanks," I said. "I thought I'd take the opportunity to look around. Looks like there's a lot to see, and I'm always looking for inspiration."
"Are you an artist, yourself?"
"Something like that. I'm a writer."
It was a truth. It felt kind of strange to say one aloud. But there was a sudden gratifying sensation in the words. I am a writer, after all. It's what I'm doing now. It's what I love. It's what keeps me from going completely crazy.
"That's great," she said. "If you need any more help, just let me know."
She wandered off.
I may not have remembered the conversation word-for-word, but that was the gist of it. I'm getting better at remembering, too. I wonder if that's all part of being a writer--a liar with a good memory. I know I haven't had many conversations lately, but I've tried memorizing the ones I have had, along with how the things around me look and what people wear. I try to keep all of that right at the top of my mind and the tip of my tongue, and then I write them down. The bits and pieces I've forgotten are left up to my imagination, I suppose, and I have to try to remain honest when I interpret them. But what about other writers? It's not like there's anyone out there with perfect total recall, as far as I know anyway. Does that mean we have to scrutinize everything, or just accept the fact that there's no such thing as a reliable narrator?
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