Page 36 of Chaos Theory
Trish invites us to move around the room to see what everyone has created. It’s surprisingly fun. Imelda has painted a traditional Christmas scene, with children playing by a fireside, while nearby a group of adults share food and conversation at a long table. Julia has painted a portrait of a woman who looks like an older version of herself, wearing colourful robes. Duncan Canning has gone wild with a family tree metaphor. The whole canvas is taken up with one enormous tree; dozens of branches house tiny stick-figure family units.
In the end and out of ideas, I opted to paint what I saw around me, so I now have a picture of Shane, Kobi and Dave painting their pictures, with others sketchily drawn in the background.
When Dave sees it he says, ‘Aw, Maeve, I didn’t expect this honour, from you of all people.’ His tone as caustic as paint remover. I ignore him.
Trish asks, ‘Well, what do you think of each other’s work?’
Kobi says, ‘Trish, by objective standards, there is clearly artistic talent among the staff. May I make a suggestion?’
She nods.
‘These paintings should be on display.’
‘I agree, Kobi. People can take them home and display them there.’
‘But we are standing right now in a gallery of sorts. Art is made to be experienced by others.’
‘Now that’s not necessarily the case, Kobi,’ says Trish. ‘I have to disagree with you there. Art is creative expression, even if no one else ever sees it.’ She flings the scarf over her shoulder again.
‘And I must disagree with you, Trish. Art only becomes art when another being recognises it as art.’
Uh-oh.
‘Well, I hate to say it, Kobi, but I’m not sure you’re the most qualified to comment, really, given that you’re not an artistyourself.’
Someone behind me makes a low ‘oooh’ sound.
‘I’m sorry if that sounds a bit harsh,’ says Trish. ‘Let’s have a look at your work. See if you managed to get anything onto the page.’
Kobi escorts Trish to his easel. Everyone else goes quiet.
‘Oh,’ she says. ‘That’s… I mean… How did you…?’
At first glance Kobi’s painting looks almost like a photograph. It’s a close-up portrait of Josh. It looks like a pointillism technique, with individual pinpoints of paint clustered together.
‘Wow,’ says Julia.
‘Ah here,’ says Dave. ‘That’s got to be cheating somehow. Right, Trish? Although…it is technically very good, I suppose.’
‘It’s…’ says Trish. ‘It’s…’
‘Amazing,’ says Julia. ‘Maeve – you didn’t tell us he could do portraits. Kobi, could you do one of me?’
Shane joins the conversation. ‘Kobi, do you think you could do more of these? Maybe do some landscapes as well? I think we could sell these. Here in the shop. Uh, alongside Trish’s work as well, of course.’
It’s unclear if Trish hears Shane’s comment because she’s moved away to noisily gather up brushes and paints and pack them into a bag.
‘Shane, might I suggest one section of the gallery be reserved for staff paintings?’ Kobi says. ‘Imelda’s and Julia’s work should be displayed. Perhaps David’s too.’
‘Great idea, Kobi,’ says Shane. ‘I think we can find room for everyone.’
Kobi moves over to one of the walls, points to Trish’s paintings. ‘If we take down some of these, there will be enough space to display them.’
‘Trish, what do you think?’ Shane calls to her.
But Trish has her back to us and doesn’t answer. As she packs away the art supplies, there’s something in the twitchy movement of her scarf that makes me think of a snake.
TWENTY-TWO
