It was a sight I used to love.
But now, it was almost tainted by threats from John’s past, by my constant worry that someone would come in and hurt me, by Ben’s disgusting smell and rotting teeth and switchblade that seemed too eager to cut into the canvas of my paintings. Every time the bell rang out into the gallery, I jumped. My heart would race, and my palms would sweat. In a matter of seconds, I would debate on whether to waddle out the back door and try to get away. Only to see it was a customer coming in to purchase something.
That Ben guy had ruined this gallery for me, and it ached my heart.
This place had been my solace, my safe place from the world. It had held my dreams and ambitions in the corners of its walls and watched me succeed. It had held a painting Bryan and I had made, our bodies becoming brushes as our love painted the scene. It had been the place of John’s showcase, where his artwork had been shipped off to the corners of the planet to forever be enjoyed and talked about.
This place had brought so much into the lives of so many, and it had only taken one individual two appearances to destroy it all.
The bell above the door rang out, and my heart jumped into my throat. This was it. He was here to collect early, and I didn’t have the money. My hands started to tremble, and I reached down for my taser, ready to defend my unborn child with my own life.
“It is such a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. McBride.”
The feminine voice ripped me from my trance, and I let go of my taser. There was a woman standing in front of me with thick-framed glasses on her face. Her raven-black hair was pulled back into a ponytail, and she was wearing torn-up jeans and a tank top with a mesh cardigan around her shoulders.
Was this supposed to be my thirty-one-year-old applicant?
“Kelly Connelly?” I asked.
“Yes, ma’am. I’m so sorry I’m late. I was volunteering on the other side of town and got stuck in traffic,” Kelly said.
“What type of volunteer work do you do?” I asked.
“Well, it’s not really official volunteer work, but I go down to the homeless shelter and draw the kids.”
“Draw the kids,” I said.
“Yeah. I mean, they sit there, and I sketch them, and then I give them the picture. They love it, and it puts smiles on their faces,” she said.
“That sounds ... nice,” I said, grinning.
“It is,” she said. “So, again. Sorry I’m late.”
“It says here you worked at The Metropolitan Art Museum as a ticket-taker,” I said.
“I did. That place is really awesome if you want a history lesson on art. But it isn’t really tailored to those who want to view it and accept it for what it is,” she said.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, all the exhibits are arranged by date. And if the date houses enough artifacts or whatever, then they divide them up by the place they were found or their origin story. Really obscure things that only someone with a degree in art history would know. It’s not really for the public, though it’s open to the public. That make sense?”
“I suppose. Would you do it any differently?” I asked.
“Oh, of course,” she said. “I would start by taking down the names of the pieces.”
“The names,” I said.
“Yes. If you want to educate the public on art, then you have to tap into how a
rt affects them. If you give them a name, a date, and a history, then they get bored because that feels too much like school. And we all know people attach ‘boring’ to any school-like atmosphere.”
“So, you would take away all the available information on the pieces, and then what?” I asked.
“The tour guide wouldn’t be a tour guide of the museum. They would be a tour guide of emotions.”
“What?” I asked.
“The tour guide wouldn’t educate. They would simply ask you how something made you feel. It would make the tours more interactive, and after learning how the piece of art affects those around them, the tour guides could give more information as to why that is.”