Page 16 of The Art of Loving Ellie
Lillian Artem is the fifth largest museum in the city. It has a unique geometric-metropolitan look to it, with seven floors dedicated to seven different exhibits. The Twilight Gallery will be shown on the fourth floor, which has a beautiful outside sculpture garden. String lights romanticize the space, and three small fountains house different colored fish at the bottom of each one, creating works of art themselves. It’s the perfect setting.
The curator is expecting me, so I’m not surprised to see her waiting by the ticket counter. She's a heavier-set, busty brunette named Madeline, and she takes her job very seriously. The harsh planes of her face and perfectly stenciled eyebrows tell me she means business, and I’m afraid to find out what would become of me if anything happens to her exhibit during our showing.
We chat for a while, vigorously looking over each detail, and once we are satisfied, I shake Madeline’s hand and pardon myself to go take a look around.
Desperate to satiate my desire to paint, I’m hoping I can find a little inspiration while I’m here. I’ve read a lot about this place and the different exhibits it houses. One of them in particular has curiously caught my eye, and I’ve wanted to visit it since I first discovered its existence.
I press the little yellow button, summoning the mechanical glass box that will take me to whichever floor I want to go. I take the elevator up to the highest floor—landscape photography. I’m drawn to this floor because of the way the photographers experiment with various techniques. Each photograph has a unique and different look, starting as early as the mid-1800s, all the way through the present day.
There aren’t many people around since it’s close to closing time, so I take my time scanning and gazing at the magnificent pictures. The huge room separates each section by large black walls that don’t fully touch the ceiling, and walking through them is like trying to find my way through a maze.
The first section I enter starts is the 1850s and the further back I go, the more recent the photographs become. I pass by a 1923 panorama of a man and woman standing in front of what appears to be a vast desert. They aren’t smiling, giving them unhappy and serious expressions, and I laugh a little to myself thinking of the background story Tyler would come up with for these two.
I’m lost in the 2000s for a while, wandering through photographs big and small, when I’m compelled to approach a large picture taking up practically an entire wall on its own.
The work of art before me is a sixteen-foot-long giant, and my mouth drops open slightly in awe as I step up to the massive, three-piece print. I take a look at the description:
Matthew Brandt
(American, born 1982)
Lake Isabella CA TC 2
2014
I flick my gaze back up at the photo and take in all the crazy shapes and colors spread about. Beautiful purple and blue hues overlapping what appears to be a lake in the background of the photo, and big black splotches accompanied by some tan and green colors cover the bottom of the picture, seeming grotesquely out of place. At the top there is a wrinkling that, to me, presents itself as rays of sunshine cascading down onto the lake that is so faded into the background, it’s almost as if it doesn’t even exist.
Staring at the picture for a long while, I contemplate the artist’s meaning. I can’t figure out why anyone would derive inspiration from this photo. There’s a small plaque with a description, and I lean in close to get a better look only to realize that I’m drawn to this artist’s work not because it moves me—but because of the unique way he has achieved its look.
Brandt took lake water from the lake in the photo and submerged the processed picture for weeks, just to see what would happen. The black pieces I noticed earlier are literal parts of the picture that had been floating around while the lake water interacted with the original image, eventually adhering to it.
My body feels heavy with longing, and disappointment. Brandt has taken a picture of a simple lake, and turned it into something extraordinary by testing the limits of his very reality and creating a new one, and it speaks to me. I can remember being just as creative once upon a time. I could conjure up a painting in the blink of an eye—nothing could stop my busy hands.
Turning away from the photo, I reminisce over my time spent in college. I would enter my pieces in various fairs around town just for fun, and I loved taking home first place ribbons and ‘people’s choice’ plaques. It made my passion fun and rewarding.
There’s nothing more cathartic than the stroke of a paintbrush against a canvas, or smearing and blending paints together to get that perfect hue. It’s a gift I was given; a special piece of my heart reserved just for me to give my thoughts a place to escape, and to bring joy and happiness to others.
Little Ellie, with her straggly, tangled hair and scared eyes, peeks out from the back corner of my mind. I remember her, and her fear of being caught doing something she loved, terrified to have it ripped away.
My mood shifts, thinking about my home life, and Robert. The conversation we had earlier only compounds my feelings of failure and the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as I sway slightly, reaching out for a solid surface I can barely feel under my fingertips.
No, no, please.
I beg myself repeatedly not to do this right now, but I’m weak. There’s a familiar pull around my vision—a black tunnel that continues to shrink down until I can barely see. My hands are slick with sweat and my heart rate is skyrocketing as an unwelcome memory from my youth forces its way to the front of my mind.
Just getting home from school, I walk up the steps to our old house. It’s hardly been remodeled over the years and it’s completely falling apart. I open the door, and just like every day, nausea settles deep into my stomach.
Ever since mom left, this place has been a complete wreck. I throw my school bag down and hear mice scatter about in unseen places. Cringing, I turn to the couch and see that it’s full of holes from their massive take over.
Searching the house for my father, I take a look into the kitchen, noticing that the sink is overflowing with used dishes. Flies are buzzing around, and the overall smell in the house is sickly sweet, making my stomach churn.
“Dad!” I call out, making my way through the mess of papers, bills, and notices from the city that are scattered about on the floor. Some of them are dated five months back and I wince, worrying about the repercussions.
“Dad,” I say again, opening the door to what was my parent’s room. He’s lying in bed, staring at the TV hanging on the wall displaying white and black static. I can tell he hasn’t showered in a while by the sweat and food stains covering his white tank top.
My eyes slide to the orange medicine bottle on his night stand. The mostly full container tells me he’s been skipping his depression meds. “What are you doing?” The static from the TV fills the room to the point of making me crazy, and when I walk over to his bed, I’m forced to put my hand up to cover my nose—he reeks.
“I don’t know what I’m doing anymore,” he croaks out.
