“The names,” I said.
“Yes. If you want to educate the public on art, then you have to tap into how art 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.”
“Interesting concept,” I said. “It also says your main degree is in music.”
“I’m a cellist,” she said.
“Why should I hire you as the manager-slash-assistant of my gallery?” I asked.
“Because sometimes places like this need the eye of someone who isn’t properly educated,” she said.
“Explain.”
“Art education isn’t always about the background information. Sometimes, art education is about teaching others how to express themselves through it.”
I tried not to jump for joy at her answer as I stood up from my stool.
“If you hire me, what I’d like to do is not simply educate, but immerse. I want to act as that tour guide. I want to figure out how the art on the wall affects people and then educate them by guiding them through those emotions. Our minds pick up on so much, and it disperses that information throughout our bodies at a dizzying pace. Sometimes, we pick up on things that make us sad before we can identify why we’re sad. The same goes for happiness. Or anxiousness. Or joy. Or depression. Take Picasso, for instance. Most people couldn’t even figure out what the hell it was he had painted, but it made them feel a certain way. Their minds picked up on cues from his paintings that pulled the exact emotion Picasso wanted from them even though they couldn’t even identify the basic subject.”
“You want to be that tour guide,” I said.
“Among other things, yes.”
“What else would you want to be?”
“A guiding hand for your classes. There have been rumors circulating that you would start some up, but they haven’t ever come to fruition. I’d like to help you start up those classes,” Kelly said.
“Some things have gotten in the way, yes,” I said.
“I’d like to be able to take on those classes for you. I’ve got three in mind that I think would go over really well in this community. One that reaches out into the disabled community, one that reaches out into the fine arts community who want to learn from you, and one that reaches out into the poorer communities who have been left behind in the wake of evolution.”
“Evolution?” I asked.
“It’s a better word than gentrification.”
“Say what you mean and mean what you say,” I said. “And I agree with you. That was my original target audience for my first art class.”
“I’d also like to find a way to get people through the doors on Saturday nights. You know, showcases or fun community activities. We could take up donations, and those donations could purchase people some tools for the art classes so those who can’t afford them can still come,” she said.
“You’ve really given this some thought,” I said.
“I really think what you’re doing here is phenomenal,” she said.
Kelly turned to me and looked me in the eyes. She had been late and very unapologetic about it, but she was sincere. The ideas she had for this place matched the ideas I had started out with, and some of the ideas even surpassed things I would’ve implemented myself. The way she wanted to educate people about art really brought it down to a level I was wanting to bring it to, making art accessible to the masses and showing them that it didn’t take a fancy degree to learn about, appreciate, and even do this idea of art.
“Would you like me to show you some of my favorite pieces?” I asked.
“I would love nothing more,” Kelly said.
I walked her around the gallery and asked her about how she felt on some of my paintings. Some of them pulled from her feelings of joy and elation while others made her anxious. She had a hard time standing in front of some of the paintings because of how tumultuous they were, and I was surprised at her ability to pick up on all of these things. We slowly walked around the room, and I conversed with her about the type of person I needed to hire, and she seemed on board with all the things I threw her way.
But then we stopped in front of John’s dual paintings.
“Wow,” Kelly said.
“Wow, indeed,” I said.
“It’s amazing how there can be so much color and still so much pain.”
I panned my gaze over to her, and I watched her eyes take in the artwork. I watched her entire body being pulled to the paintings as she studied them over and over. In an odd way, this thirty-one-year-old alternative woman fit into this place. She brought back a civility to it that had been stripped away when the likes of Ben had appeared at my door. She carried with her a light that I needed to shine in this place, a light that could coat the walls even with the darkness that loomed just outside of it.
“These are the dual paintings by that artist you showcased, isn’t it?” Kelly asked.
“John McBride, yes,” I said.
“He was a drug user, right?” she asked. “I can’t remember his whole story. Something about art helping him get clean. I loved that part of his story.”
“You’re basically right. John was homeless and strung out on drugs when I found him in Los Angeles. He was sketching people and animals as they went by and selling his drawings for ten dollars a pop on the street corner.”
“Ten dollars,” she said breathlessly. “If only they knew who they were purchasing those from.”
“I had this little studio, barely any bigger than my little store I have back behind that wall. He wandered into my studio high during one of my classes, and I sat him down with a canvas and a brush. Art seemed to calm him, broaden his mind, and open up his horizons. He ended up coming to every class I gave and was eventually there every day doing some sort of painting,” I said.
I felt my eyes tearing up as Kelly continued to marvel at his paintings. I could still see John’s face that night, how angry he had been when he’d come into the studio and saw those men holding me in the air. It was like he became inhuman, ripping them off me.
I closed my eyes and took in a slow, deep breath to try and calm my nerves.
“What happened to him?” Kelly asked.
“He was killed,” I said.
“What?”
“Yeah. He was killed trying to protect someone who meant something to him.”
“A girlfriend?” she asked.
“No. Just a friend,” I said.
“Mrs. McBride, no offense, but no one gives their life for someone who’s just a friend.”
“John did,” I said. “It shows you the caliber of a man he was. Art saved him, but it didn’t pull him out of his addiction. It showed him a better way of life. He kept selling his art, found odd jobs to do, and ended up making enough to get his own place. Art gave him the rope he needed to climb out of the hole he had dug himself. It’s why hiring the right person for this place is so important to me.”
“You don’t want your personal philosophy to be muddled,” Kelly said.
“Correct. I want someone who understands that art is so much more than some high-society understanding. It’s rehabilitating and nurturing. It can be life-giving, and it can change the lives of those who succumb to its warmth. It can bring joy and peace, and it can give those who struggle to express themselves the perfect outlet to do just that.”
We stood there, the two of us, taking in John’s paintings. I couldn’t believe I was about to sell these off. I couldn’t believe things had spiraled so far out of control that I was about to relinquish these to Ramon Escalante. I knew he would take good care of them. I knew he would put them somewhere where they could be cherished, but it was all I had left of John. It was all I had left of the man who had saved my life.
It was all I had left that connected me to someone I should’ve known better than I did.
The warmth of a pair of arms descended around me, pulling me once again from my thoughts. I looked over and saw Kelly’s head leaning toward mine, her arms hugging me around my shoulders. I wrapped my arm around her and accepted the kindness of this stranger, our heads meshed together as we stared at his paintings.
“I think John saved the life of the woman who saved him,” Kelly said. “And I think that says a lot about him as a man.”
A tear rumbled down my cheek as I held Kelly closer. We stood there in the middle of my art gallery as her warmth filled the open space. I closed my eyes and steadied my breathing, allowing myself to soak up a strength I so desperately needed. I was so used to being the source of my own strength that I hadn’t come to terms with how worn down I had become, how weak I felt in my bones, and how heavy my soul felt with everything spiraling around me.