﻿Quantum Critique by Donna K. Fitch Smashwords Edition Copyright 2011 Donna K. Fitch Discover other titles by Donna K. Fitch at Smashwords.com Smashwords Edition, License Notes Thank you for downloading this free ebook. You are welcome to share it with your friends. This book may be reproduced, copied and distributed for non-commercial purposes, provided the book remains in its complete original form. If you enjoyed this book, please return to Smashwords.com to discover other works by this author. Thank you for your support. "They're angry this week, Fred. Do you think anyone will look at them?" The security guard grunted and scratched at something on his belt buckle, rattling the keys dangling nearby. "I dunno, it's a football weekend," he answered. "'S where I oughta be." I folded my arms and cocked my head for a better view of the painting, although I knew it by heart. "Art feeds the soul," I reminded him. I meant it literally, but Fred doesn't pay much attention half the time. "Football feeds ... well, I'm not sure what it feeds." "My wife, I hope," he said with a snort. "I got money on that game. Alabama by a touchdown. How come you don't ever play the pool?" He shouldn't say things like that in front of the artworks, especially when they're angry, but he always does. "I just don't see the point," I told him, staring at the little patch of carmine splashing the chest of the hapless clerk in the foreground of the painting. The color was definitely brighter than it was a week ago, which was when the new brochure went out with "Convenience Store Holdup Gone Wrong" featured on the cover. Even works by minor local artists who specialized in depicting urban crime need attention, and it did have a definite primitive charm, although the suggestion of violence reminded me far too much of past times I'd rather not remember. "We'll be busy," Fred assured me. "All the football widows'll come in for the new exhibit. People with out-of-town guests. Although I don't know why you want more people in here. All that noise ... All them kids ..." He shuddered audibly. I just sighed and shook my head. He wouldn't ever understand, so I don't even try any more. Ignoring his unsolicited commentary, I said, "Ms. Connor told us about this exhibit in the staff meeting. Modern works, on loan from Memphis. Quite exciting." Some days Fred sounds like a pig with his snorting. "Modern. To me, modern is the impressionists. I don't like anything since." He screwed up his face as if eating a lemon. "Except maybe Calder. Something about the mobiles and stabiles ... The juxtaposition of metal against the sky, clean sharp edges contrasting with freeform natural shapes ..." "If you're so knowledgeable about art," I interrupted, frankly surprised by his words, "why are you the security guard and I'm the docent?" "Because you're a bored housewife who volunteered and has to lecture to disinterested high school kids." Fred grinned like some sort of mental defective. "I just have to guard the things and warn people not to touch and use my education amusing myself without interference from anyone." I almost snorted at that, but caught myself in time. "Education?" I echoed, aware of the nasty tone of my voice and hoping the painting would forgive me this once. "Dropping out of eighth grade isn't an education." "For your information, Mrs. Theriot," he said, his calm smile unshaken, "I have a bachelor's degree in art history, same as you. And I write a review column for the Alabama Arts Today website." My withering glare told him I was unimpressed. "So how come you aren't looking at the new exhibit before everyone gets here?" Fred asked, oblivious to my expression. "I'm not ready yet. The paintings really prefer a larger audience. It's too much pressure for one person." His concerned frown, as if I'd said something wrong, annoyed me. "If you'll excuse me, I have duties before we open," I finished, and hurried from the gallery. Fred was right about the crowds, although it irked me to admit it. When the doors opened, people streamed inside, eager for the new exhibit. All the works would be fresh to me as well, as I'd been forced to miss the preview party; my oldest, Mindy, had claimed a cold, although I think she probably had a test the next day, so I had to stay home with her, and Douglas worked late, even though I told him about the party well in advance. My family doesn't understand the importance of my work at the museum. I barely heard the murmurs of the crowd over the pounding in my ears as I stepped across the threshold into the gallery where the exhibit hung. The familiar wave of something like static electricity on a dry day shimmered over me, nearly taking away my breath, and I felt the hairs on the back of my neck standing up. An indescribable combination of quiet calm and jubilant power surged through my veins, the sort of feeling Pope Julius II must have experienced when he first saw the Sistine Chapel ceiling, seeing its beauty and knowing that although Michelangelo had painted it, he had commissioned it, he had caused it to be. The enjoyment of the patrons was palpable as they pointed and whispered and gestured at each painting and print and sculpture. My habit is to glance at each work first before settling down to really give each its due. Fred would be happy, I thought as I toured the room. The pieces were, on the whole, not quite as groundbreaking as I'd hoped, despite the bold title of the exhibition, "The Future of Art: A Retrospective." I quelled any stirrings of doubt, not wishing to offend the works. Standing out among the more ordinary canvases were a huge Frank Stella dominating one end of the room, a Rauschenberg assemblage near it, and an immense aquatint by Helen Frankenthaler. I'd nearly completed the initial circuit, turned my head away to cross the doorway, and looked back in astonishment as I realized I'd missed one small painting in the corner. I actually gasped aloud. The entire canvas was about the size of a sheet of notebook paper, stark, pristine white, and framed with a thin white shadowbox. Precisely in the center of the canvas was a square of perfectly painted red, smooth and flat, as if it were a lithograph. Somehow I knew that if I measured the shape, each side would be exactly the same length. The simple perfection of it was such that I flinched away, lowering my eyes as if before a mighty king on a throne. The tag below proclaimed its title "As You Like It," executed in oils on canvas just last year by none other than Anastasias DeGraffenried. I stared at the tag, my ears ringing. I should have known that such a faultless masterpiece was created by the high school art teacher who helped me survive the hollow nightmare of my teenage years and who opened up another realm of experience to me, creative and art-filled, but entirely and intimately personal. Why had Ms. Connor hung it here, in the corner, away from the main traffic? I'd have to speak to her about this. I eased away from the beautiful red square, tore my gaze from it, and for a few moments watched the people gliding about the gallery. My palms itched and sweated as I waited breathlessly for others to discover its simplicity. After a few moments, I exhaled slowly as I noted the patrons passing the red work, stopping, viewing the painting. Relief weakened my knees. If something that amazing were ignored, the foundations of the world might just crack with the strain. Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday were busy with two classes of school children each day. I incorporated the DeGraffenried painting into the lecture, although it wasn't originally in the notes Ms. Connor gave me. The children were politely bored, until the second class on Wednesday, a lively group of sixth graders, rushed in. Just as I launched into the concept of nonrepresentational art and gestured toward "As You Like It," one spiky-haired young man asked contemptuously, "Why's that so special? I could paint something that lame and stupid, and nobody'd put it in a museum." Ice instantly coated my body, although beads of clammy sweat sprang up on my scalp. The laughter of the class sounded dim and distant. Lame? The DeGraffenried stupid? How could he say that? I jerked my head toward the painting, afraid I'd see a gaping hole, but the bright red beamed back at me as if to say that the uninformed opinions of children hardly count. Feeling returned to my fingertips and toes, relief bubbling through my veins. The words of the lecture flowed from my lips once more. "Mr. DeGraffenried is dealing here with ideal forms," I said. "Not all artwork depicts the world as it really is. Some artists focus our attention on the materials themselves and on the creative process. At the beginning of the last century, artists such as Kupka and Kandinsky experimented with the forms of the visible world ..." They tuned me out, of course, and I quickly moved on to the sculpture garden. After the little hoodlums shuffled back onto the bus to bedevil their long-suffering teachers, I hurried back to the painting, my one-inch pumps skidding on the polished floor, leaving thick black marks. The white canvas, the red square remained whole and perfect, perhaps even a bit brighter and smoother after three days of devotion. I vividly recalled Anastasias DeGraffenried's perpetually-disordered thatch of blonde hair, his hazel eyes behind tiny oval glasses, the feel of his bony arms wrapped around my back. As I gazed at his creation, I saw myself watching him raptly, pictured him fitting together the wooden stretchers, tiny bits of dead skin flaking off his hands as he stretched the canvas taut, perhaps pricking his finger on the staples as he electric-gunned them through the fabric and into the soft wood. The unctuous smell of linseed oil adhered to the lining of his nostrils, as it did mine, flowing out again mixed with the essence of his soul as he breathed across the virgin canvas, priming its surface. Minute smears of oil from his skin brushed the surface when he carefully measured the area, the tip of his pencil flecking the corners as a guide. A single bead of sweat quivered on the smooth coat of white concealing the primer and quickly dried. "Every canvas is imbued with the painter's essence, Gail," Anastasias used to tell me, "with his soul, his life-force, quiescent within the piece until the attention and adoration of the spectator releases it in a glorious synthesis that enriches both the painting and the viewer. You have power within you as a participant with the artist, even if you never paint a stroke." He helped me understand that few museum visitors realize the awesome responsibility entrusted to them. They fail to show the proper respect due the artworks, treating them as inanimate objects that exist only to serve their baser needs. His philosophical musings always suffused me with power, with the knowledge that I had influence and control over an artwork, whether or not I had it in any other sphere of life. When I returned home, Douglas was angry that dinner wasn't ready, and I couldn't understand why until I looked at the clock on the stove. I must've stood in front of that painting for a full hour. The thought of it shivered my body with ecstasy. The right words placated my grumbling spouse and soothed his ruffled feathers, and the painting was momentarily forgotten in a whirl of meal preparation and fielding questions from and doling out advice to Stephen and Mindy, whose cold was miraculously gone. At dinner I avoided all mention of the painting. Not that I had the opportunity if I'd wanted to mention it. Douglas groused his way through the entire meal about some case that wasn't going the way his clients and the partners wanted, railing against everyone in the legal system from clerks to judges, throwing in the Senate for good measure. After dinner, the children ran off to their homework and television and Douglas, who had a years-long affair with the telephone, retreated to his study to harangue whomever had the misfortune to be at home when he called. As I washed the dishes, scrubbed the top of the stove, and wiped the counters and table, my thoughts wandered back to the smooth red square supported by a field of white. What if I could crawl inside the square, I wondered while I fastened up the trash bag and dropped it inside the garbage can behind the garage. The staccato of Douglas' barking into the phone and the skirls and bleeps of Stephen's Game Boy and the whining soundtrack of Mindy's favorite television show would all snap off, like shutting the back door behind me. The smooth redness would surround me, wrapping me in its pristine color and rich music, for I'm certain that color has a sound all its own. The fervor of my devotion would maintain every molecule of red, every nuance of its surface, merging my purpose with that of the artist in a true ecstasy of collaboration, a thrill of control, an orgasmic rush of-- "Gail?" Douglas' voice buzz-sawed me out of my red cocoon. "Are you out there?" The screen door snapped shut behind him like the finality of an execution by gunshot and his face loomed out of the darkness. A nearby streetlight illuminated his furrowed brow and pursed lips. "How long have you been out here? The kids have been in bed for half an hour." I shoved the lid down on the plastic can, but years of rough treatment had warped it and it sprang off again. He sighed loudly, elbowed past me, and said, "Here, let me do that." I handed him the lid and retreated into the house. Thursday the museum is closed, and even though I only come for the staff meeting, I visited the painting afterward. The quiet, empty halls depress me and I always feel pressure to pay especially close attention to the artworks because no one else will, so I go home exhausted, with one of those sharp little headaches around my eyes, requiring a lengthy nap before the kids come home from school. To my delight, a lengthy review about the show came out in the newspaper Friday night, actually mentioning Anastasias DeGraffenried by name, raving about the works, recommending it highly, and praising the curator for her expertise in procuring the exhibit. I cut out the article and pasted it--right next to the brochure announcing the show and a small paragraph I printed out from the Internet about Anastasias and his recently-opened studio in Atlanta --into a memory book I keep, certain that the publicity would draw attention to the entire exhibit and especially my favorite painting. My presence isn't really required on Saturdays, but as long as I've been volunteering at the museum, Douglas has had charge of the kids for the morning, even though this morning he complained vociferously that he had to work. "Take them to your mother's," I suggested as I started the Mercedes SUV. "I'm needed at the museum." As I expected, on Saturday the place hummed with activity. Children's laughter bounced off the polished floors up to the high ceiling of the entry foyer, layered with the soft thumps of athletic shoes and clicks of hard soles, the hushed comments of adults who felt they had to whisper as if in church, and the coughs of smokers deprived of tobacco for the duration. "Are they angry today?" Fred's voice in my ear startled me, but I covered the jump reflex by smoothing my hair. "No, they're not," I answered with a smile. "Everyone's admiring them." "Since Alabama lost last week, I guess no one's going to the game," he grumbled, folding his arms across his chest. "A true fan," I replied, "would go regardless of the outcome." He stared at me. "You don't watch sports at all, do you?" I assumed it was a rhetorical question and moved closer to the DeGraffenried. The smooth red glowed vibrantly against the white canvas, the white frame neatly harnessing its exuberance. "This is what I watch." Fred grunted, ducked his head, and stared at the painting. Suddenly I remembered his remarks a few days ago on modern art. Panic needled at my skin from the inside, and when he opened his mouth, I knew what he would say. "What a piece of crap." My hands shook, palms tingling. "Don't say that, Fred," I said in a harsh whisper, as if remonstrating my children. "It'll hear you." "I just don't understand how they can call something like that art. My five-year-old does better in kindergarten." Fred shook his head from side to side. "I agree with ya there, buddy," said a man in a bulging T-shirt and severely strained jeans, elbowing Fred. "Just gimme a can of Sherwin-Williams, and I could do that." A dull whine like a saber saw volumed behind my eyes, and I whipped my gaze frantically from the men to the painting. "Stop it right now! You don't appreciate--" "Hey, Margie, looky here," the fat man called to his similarly-clad wife. "This is what the city spends our tax dollars on." I grabbed Fred's folded arms and said, "If you don't do something--" I scarcely heard the words coming out of my own mouth because of the whining buzz in my head, and it took every ounce of strength in my body not to run from the room. But I had to stay and protect the painting from their scorn. If it wasn't already too late. Fred sighed and said, "Okay, Mrs. Theriot." He leaned over and whispered something to the fat man, who glanced from me to the painting, laughed, and nodded. "Thank you," I mouthed as the couple lumbered away. Fred shrugged, pushed back his cap, and walked to the other side of the gallery. The whining subsided, although my fingertips tingled and my legs wobbled beneath me. I dragged the bench closer to the DeGraffenried and sank down, rubbing feeling back into my icy arms. The painting seemed normal. Or was that a black spot in the center? Swiftly I ducked toward it. The red surface of the square was dull and rough, slightly pitted as if the paint had been rolled on over sheetrock. And sure enough, just off center of the square was a tiny pinpoint of black. I sucked my hands over my mouth, smothering a shriek that clawed its way up my throat. The center of my chest hurt sharply as if pierced with nails. He had finally done it. Fred had damaged the painting with his criticism. And what damage! I'd seen the effects of neglect on a work of art, but never outright scorn. Scarlet flashes obscuring my vision, I stumbled across the room and plucked at Fred's sleeve, dragging him back toward the DeGraffenried. "What's wrong with you?" he demanded, thick eyebrows clustering over his nose. "Are you ill?" "Oh, no, I'm perfectly fine," I retorted, doubting he'd catch the sarcasm. I ignored the bead of sweat trickling down the side of my face and went on, "It's the painting you should concern yourself with." He hunkered down in front of it. "Did someone do something to it?" "You did, you dolt," I said through clenched teeth. "Just look." "I don't see anything." I stamped my foot in exasperation, and a tingle zipped up my leg. Shoving his shoulder, I said, "The red. It's all lumpy now, and there's a black spot in the center." Fred puffed out his cheeks in a sigh, scratched the thinning hair beneath his cap. "I'm afraid I don't see a black spot, Mrs. Theriot. And hanged if I can see what you find so fascinating about it." "Don't--" The word popped out loud and thin and shrill, and the gallery fell silent, but I was shaking so badly I couldn't focus on all the faces that turned toward me. Although it was cowardly, I abandoned the painting and ran out, blundering into the doorframe and spinning into the hall in a hazy mist. Fred's voice echoed out after me, "--a little high strung. She'll be okay." I sat in the driver's seat of the SUV for probably twenty minutes before my hands steadied and the mist cleared. Not satisfied with destroying the painting, Fred denigrated it before all those people. Art obviously cannot take care of itself; it depends on its spectators to protect it from harm, the way Anastasias protected me years ago when I fled to his studio after my first husband bloodied my nose, even though I had graduated from high school six months before and was no longer his student. Sunday I feigned illness and stayed in bed the entire time Douglas and the children were at church, and throughout most of the afternoon, rallying in time to fix supper. I suppose I should've been braver and gone to the museum, but I was too afraid of what I'd find. By Monday I'd summoned up the courage to face the disaster and was relieved to find that I'd built it up in my head worse than it actually was. The once-smooth red surface was still bumpy and the black dot had not disappeared, but at least it hadn't grown any. Fred was off on Mondays, thankfully, so I lavished as much attention on it as I could between class visits--three that day--and by the time I left at five, the dot was gone and much of the smoothness had returned. A flurry of excitement kept us busy most of Tuesday. One of the artists featured in the Textile Arts gallery died Monday afternoon, and the local press descended upon us Tuesday morning as soon as the museum opened. I scurried here and there finding out bits of information about the artist, sending off faxes to other major galleries where her work was exhibited, and generally making myself indispensable to the curator. It was nearly closing time before I returned to the Future of Art exhibition. The DeGraffenried painting greeted me with its quiet red glow, and a peaceful feeling draped around me, sluicing away the fatigue. Until Fred walked in. "Hey, you'll like this," he said, waving a sheet of paper. "Here's the review of the exhibition I'm posting tonight on the Alabama Arts Today site. Wanna hear part of it?" He apparently took my glare for assent, because he cleared his throat. "'While those works--' I talked about the Frankenthaler and a few other famous ones in the previous paragraph. 'While those works provide a long-overdue treat for the jaded Birmingham museum visitor, other paintings in the exhibition are less successful.'" "I don't think I want to hear this." I chewed my lip as the whining started again in my head. "'An abstract piece by derivative painter Anastasias DeGraffenried has no place among his more famous brother and sister artists. The bland smoothness of the red and white paint does little to enrich our understanding of color or texture. His sort of sterile minimalism is no longer relevant, if it ever was, and would be better suited to hang in a motel room rather than on the walls of--" "Stop it!" I shouted, quivering from head to foot, feeling as though I rapidly shimmered in and out of existence like a mirage in the desert. "You'll ruin it." Fred shook his head and grinned. "Naw, the artist already did that to the poor canvas. Besides, what's my little criticism gonna hurt, huh?" The announcement that the museum was now closed echoed through the room. "Why don't you go on home? You're looking tired. You've had a long day," he said as he plodded out, then called over his shoulder, "Be sure to check out the website later!" I spun toward the painting, frantically swallowing down the bile that fouled my parched throat. A black bullet hole scarred the center, jagged black lines ripping from the hole toward the white canvas. The dull red had rubbed off in places, mottled with an ugly grayish color beneath. A section of the frame had splintered off and disturbing brown smears marred the pristine white. Tears blurred my vision, but I wiped them away with the back of my hand. Pity was a luxury I could not afford. A steely lump hardened in my stomach, and my cheeks felt cold and tight. Art must be defended from its critics, protected from its detractors. I had the power and it was my responsibility to use it. Clenching my fingernails into my palms, I strode out of the gallery. Fred was no longer in sight, but I knew his routine. He made one final circuit of the building, checked the workroom last, then locked up for the night. That gave me about ten minutes. The workroom was deserted when I slipped in. Ms. Connor kept the room neat, but in her haste today she'd left the pneumatic nail gun out on the table. Propped against the wall was a huge canvas she was re-stretching. I plugged the nail gun into an outlet near the door and thought hard about the original pristine surface of the DeGraffenried before Fred had defiled it with his scorn. I felt the radiance of the warm red enveloping me, caressed the river of silky pure color, listened to the soothing murmur of a world of infinite peace safe from all scorn and neglect and abuse. Time slipped around me with little meaning until Fred's footsteps thumped in the corridor, interrupting my meditation. He pushed open the door and smiled when he saw me, opened his mouth, but before another word issued from those filthy lips, I shoved the nail gun against his navy blue tie and pulled the trigger twice. The double pop echoed loudly in the workroom. His eyes stretched open, bloodshot whites nearly swallowing the brown pupils. I stepped away, and he gurgled, a dollop of blood like thick carmine paint bubbling down his chin, fluttered his hands before him like some little old lady faced with a Mapplethorpe, and pitched over on the floor onto his face. With icy fingers I unplugged the nail gun and replaced it where I had found it so Ms. Connor wouldn't be angry. She doesn't like anyone touching her tools, so I took an extra moment to carefully wipe away any fingerprints. I stooped down beside Fred. His initial slow pulse quickly faded and stilled. A warm flush dashed the ice from my skin, and I giggled, looked down at Fred, and giggled again. Smoothing my skirt, I stepped over the body, and turned out the light in the workroom. Time to tell the painting--if it didn't know already--that it was safe from Fred's jeering. The corridors were very quiet except for the white noise of the air conditioning whirring overhead, but for the first time, it didn't fill me with nervous dread. As I listened carefully, I heard works of art all over the museum sighing in concert, pleased that the violence toward one of their brethren had been avenged. Head held high, I strode confidently into the Future of Art gallery, which was lit only by the emergency lighting and the red glow of the exit signs. I ignored the congratulations of the Frankenthaler, the Stella, the Rauschenberg and approached the DeGraffenried. The painting was perfect once more. Whole. Maybe even slightly larger than before, the red surface a bit shinier, the white canvas a little more stark. I blinked. Walked around the room. Gazed at each painting for a moment before returning to the DeGraffenried. I truly saw it for the first time. A puerile, amateur, derivative piece of garbage that had no business hanging in a gallery with the likes of Frankenthaler and Stella and Rauschenberg. I walked out of the museum, climbed into the SUV, and drove home to cook dinner. The next evening, while the children were out at a ballgame with their father, I pasted the article from the newspaper about Fred's death in my memory book alongside the obituary of my first husband, a police photograph of the Times' art critic (how I got that is my little secret), and an advertisement pleading for information on the whereabouts of a certain teenaged would-be art vandal whose body would never be found. As I wiped away the excess glue from the edges of the clipping, it occurred to me that abusive husbands and critics and vandals are not the only ones harming art lovers and paintings and etchings. Inferior artists, whose daubings somehow slip into exhibitions and detract from those more talented works hung nearby, might be just as dangerous. After all, Art can't take care of itself. The power lies in the beholder. Perhaps Douglas and the children would enjoy a trip to Atlanta while I paid a visit to a certain artist's studio. ~*~*~ About the Author Donna K. Fitch is not a scary person. She doesn’t like slasher movies and has been known to throw up at the sight of blood (mostly her own). She is, however, rather fond of eldritch horrors, curses, cemeteries, falls of fish, and torturing protagonists. She will don another identity for a role-playing game at the drop of a hat (which she looks rather good in, by the way). She is still not sure what she wants to be when she grows up, but she’s been a librarian and a web designer. And a Baptist worship leader. Donna lives in the middle of the state of Alabama with her technology-whisperer husband Thomas and her three cats, Nala, Alice and Sophie. Connect with Me Online Smashwords: http://www.smashwords.com/profile/view/donnakfitch Website: http://www.donnakfitch.com