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There was a long silence before the music started. For a few moments it was as if I was deaf; I couldn’t even hear myself. Slowly, the soft melody drifted into my ears.
She took my hand.
My eyes immediately looked to our joined hands.
Rolling her eyes, she let go, pointing for me to move to the next painting.
When I did, I noticed the volume increased, and the notes changed. Again, I glanced at her.
She just nodded like she could read my mind. The music changed depending on what I was looking at.
This is pretty cool. The thought ran through my head before I could stop myself. From the corner of my eye, I could see her grinning, and I tried to regain my composure, walking slowly to the next piece, stopping and moving backward just to check if the music would change back immediately. To my surprise, it did.
She smacked my arm and, walking behind me, forced my head to face the painting.
Giving in, I focused. I wasn’t sure how to describe the music for the next image, other than tragic. The painting was massive, almost taking up the whole wall. It was of red, gold, and orange swirls, with faceless figures dancing around them. Noticing the lighting change, I glanced up to the arched ceiling, upon which was projected a close-up photo of a firefighter battling a burning bus, sweat dripping down his face as he gripped the hose in his hands. I felt like I stared at the photo for hours before my eyes finally fell back to the painting again. I realized those weren't just swirls, but flames, and the faceless figures weren’t dancing, they were trapped. My chest felt heavy, and I didn’t want to look anymore.
With my next step, the music changed to what seemed like gunshots or firecrackers. This time, the painting was much clearer, depicting a riot in the street between police and civilians. Things were being thrown, and the scene looked like an all-out war was about to take place. When I looked up, this time the photo on the ceiling was of two teens in the midst of the chaos, kissing against a car.
Make love, not war. I smiled, moving on to the next painting.
The music turned to laughter, and the painting was of an old man holding up a bat in front of a toppled ice cream cart, the contents spilling out onto the ground. Above me, the photo showed three young boys, no older than seven, their hands filled with ice cream and the biggest grins on their faces as they ran away.
Taking a few steps back, I tried to view all three paintings at the same time, the music blending the tragedy, gunshots, and laughter together.
“Heroes, Rebels, and Thieves,” I said out loud, understanding the transition among them. I realized the whole gallery must have been arranged in sets of threes.
Once I understood how it all worked, I went on. It felt like the space was sucking me in, and I was too curious to stop myself. I wasn’t sure how long I spent on each photo or painting. I couldn’t deny that each made me feel something, even when I didn’t want to. She was able to capture human emotion on extreme levels. One moment you were in pain, and the next you were laughing—all in the span of one footstep.
By the time we reached the end, not only had we spent two hours there, I was emotionally drained…something I hadn’t been since my wedding day.
“Well?” she asked me, taking off the headphones. “Am I still a con artist?”
She was something, I just didn’t have a name for it yet. “It was…better than I expected, I guess. You're no Jackson Pollock, but it’s decent.”
I only knew that artist's name because I had seen it in an old textbook. I wasn’t sure what else to say though, without giving her a big head. She was hard enough to deal with as it was.
She grinned, giving herself a pat on the back.
I fought the urge to roll my eyes.
“Two compliments in one day from Dr. Davenport. I can die happy—”
“When else did I compliment you?” I tried to remember.
She twirled around, her heels now in her hand. “You said I looked nice.”
“Obviously I’m sleep deprived,” I muttered under my breath. I didn't like that smile on her face.
“Okay, sure… Anyway, thank you for viewing the whole thing.”
“He enjoyed it?” the old man asked, his cane clicking against the ground as he approached.
“He did, but his pride won’t let him admit I’m amazing,” she answered.
Oh god. “Aren’t you supposed to be humble?”
“I’ll work on it.”
