Origin #9: Shaping the Environment

Her eyes were upon you the moment you entered her abode. She is haughty and sneering, or would have been if she had a mouth to sneer with, gazing watchfully as you inspect your surroundings. Your thoughts, your opinions... she can read your first impression in the furrow of your brow, the quirk of your mouth, the disinterest in your eyes as you take the sights in. The mark of her enchantment begins to glow in response.

"You will show my paintings the proper respect. You will give my beloved gallery the attention it's due."

It is a small building, only a few rooms wide and a single story tall. It's barely more than a studio apartment set against the backdrop of the bustling city, though the neat little garden with its black grass and white lilies lends something striking to the muted walls. You had heard rumors that the gallery was haunted, that sensationalists called it an experience that was not to be missed, a journey for the senses. Whispers of a strange, unexplainable phenomenon - a secret technique that the artist took to the grave. But the place is simple and the lighting moody, and as you cross the threshold it almost feels as though you are leaving the colors of life behind.

The walls are a dark near-basalt black, the lighting pale in contrasting white. There is no warmth in either of them, and the silence lends nothing to the mood. You feel as though you've walked into a tomb, a mausoleum, this artist's resting place... their works are spaced in neat rows upon the walls, in frames that would be ornate and opulent if they'd had any color at all. Even the fabric that drapes some of the more abstract works seem eerily like shrouds, swaddling the drab grey artworks further like bodies wrapped in cloth. You'd heard these pieces described as curious, as sensational... but why is it that all you see is abstraction in tones and values, nonsense in black and white and grey?

What a depressing space, you think to yourself as she paces at your side. First matching your steps with dainty ones of her own, then trotting circles around you to catch your reactions from all angles. If you could see her, you'd recognize the pattern of spots in her long, silky tail. They feature heavily in the art that surrounds you and she wears it like a mantle, wrapped about her neck like a sable scarf. It flows behind her like the train of a queen, trimmed and precise, luxuriantly mirroring the drapery on the sculptures, the fabric framing the walls.

What was that artist trying to achieve? Where was the passion you'd been promised? The love, the fondness, the dedication that you'd read about in all of the city's brochures? For every critic that said there was nothing to find in this grey gallery there were at least two more who sang its praises as though they'd found a diamond in the rough. Your eyes scan the shapes and reliefs, desperate to find some meaning, some hint of motive, anything to prove that the daubs of paint in their silver-grey caches were more than just a madman's scribbles and gobbledygook. You pace up and down the length of the rooms, sitting on the benches and peering at the shapes, following the curves of metal and wire and fabric in the abstract piece before you.

And she sits at your side, looking up at it with you. Glancing over at you from time to time waiting patiently to see if you will pass her test.

"Will you stop looking and start looking? Or are you as blind and as boring as a fool?" A ripple runs through her tail, far too long to impart the angry swish she desires. "Either start using your sight or get out of mine."

She's played this game many times before you came to her hall. Judged each and every creature that stepped foot inside her boundary. Always ready for them to disappoint her, but just as quick to suppress the delight she feels from those who begin to learn to look deeper than the surface. Though you haven't once seen nor felt her presence near you, she stares at you pointedly, waiting for your response.

It takes you longer than she would have liked but observing the twisting wires and curves of the sculpture has made you begin to realize something. What you thought were mere lines of abstraction begin to take on the form of bars, no longer individual but a curling sphere. From the angle you are standing at, the shadows on the floor cast a very specific shape. It is a cage. And at its center, the shadows form a bird.

It surprises you, the shift in understanding, the sudden realization that these possibilities might exist throughout. Subtle shapes and intricacies, slowly revealing themselves the more you look at curves and contours, details appearing in places you'd simply glossed over before. And among all of them the shape of a bird, described in the inscriptions as the artist's beloved rock dove, appearing, featuring, and inspiring again and again and again. The memorial to the dead was starting to take on a life of its own as you examine silhouette and movement, harmony in the negative spaces; the gallery is suddenly livelier somehow, searching for signs that you missed with your previously disinterested eyes.

Is she proud of you? Yes, but her arrogant nature would never let her admit such a thing. She watches the excitement in your eyes, the now genuine smile upon your lips, relaxing as you go through and re-examine the works of art again. The enchantment at her brow pulses with a soft glow as she closes her eyes.

"You'll never love them as much as I do. But I suppose its enough that you can understand them on some paltry level for now."

As you begin to understand that the rock dove was the heart of this artist's work you sense a subtle shift in your surroundings. It feels as though something has daintily brushed past you, bumping your elbow as it skirted around your form. You turn your head thinking it must have been another patron, but of course there is nobody there.

The real surprise is waiting for you as you turn back to the painting before you. A still life in abstract of lilies and mondo grass. The stark contrast is there in the white heads of the flowers, and the deep, rich black of the blades of grass as before. But bridging the two are the deep green stems of the flowers, dusty emerald leaves contrasting against the flaking antique gold of it's ornate frame. Even the drapery around it, the same one you'd called shroud-like now had a warm tint to it amongst its darker spots. It had become less like looking at a memento of death and was now like gazing into a fond memory, the dusky colors reminiscent of a haziness and warmth that only nostalgia could provide.

The colors were muted but they were there. And you knew for a fact that they hadn't been before.

Examining the art becomes a surreal experience as you begin to notice hints of color, subtle but certain, among the works, and you can't help but make a third circuit around the gallery to take in everything for sure. You feel a cold and thoughtful gaze fixated on the back of your head as you think and roam and puzzle over things, but whenever you look... of course, nobody is there.

By the time you check your watch and head back towards the entryway the novelty of the place has worn off. Clearly the gallery was always full of colors like this, how could it ever have been any other way? That cold, monochrome studio you entered is already fading from memory, replaced with your newfound appreciation for the emotions that the works ignited in your heart. You leave a generous tip in the donation box before setting out into the afternoon sun.

And perched by the birdcage statue in the main wing's hall, she watches you go.