La Douleur Exquise

Marcato Legato Staccato

La Douleur Exquise III

Marcato Legato Staccato

~seikiunne11

I should never have come here.

I totally, utterly regret coming here. 

It only took me one look at the entrance of the gallery to know I should never have come back to this city.

Why didn’t I look at the brochure before coming here?

Why didn’t I have any idea that this would happen?

Why, of all the people in the world, did it have to be about me?

WHY?!

~ 

The barista handed me a brochure to a museum nearby. He suggested I make a quick visit as it would probably be useful for me as a writer. And I, in my curiosity, paid heed to what he said, but never got the idea to open and see what was showcased in the galleries. I only looked at the front, a big photo of the museum and several titles in languages I didn’t want to mentally translate, and at the back, the map and the contact details of the museum.

Walking to the concierge I was surprised to be greeted in a far more cheerful way than what is apt for a stranger in this weather. And more surprisingly, they gave me a complimentary pass and assisted me well with everything I needed. I didn’t pay anything at all, not even for the magazines of the artists who had their works exhibited there. I knew I had to pay for the publications and stuff, they weren’t cheap and it’s not easy to get a market for this type of sellable material. But the staff insisted that I go in. 

And that it would give me the answers.

What? What the heck where they talking about?

I used to enjoy these kinds of small trips: a town or city museum, libraries, book shops, cafes, vintage shops, someplace small and cheap but really nostalgic or educational. I used to like talking about it too with people. Especially him.

Him.

Well what do you know? I get a glimpse of someone’s name the same as him. I ignored it, fate must be playing eye tricks on me.

I walked around, hardly paying attention to what I was seeing. It’s the same boring history of life and man told in a different cultural context. I simply looked forward to seeing the new ones, maybe that would spark my interest. It barely took me five minutes to roam around until I reached the recently opened section, the contemporary gallery exhibiting five local artists. It was fresh, very modern, and highly controversial. 

I didn’t really pay attention to who the artists were, there wasn’t any need to know, not unless the work struck me enough to know the artists’ motive. There were a few, especially the feminist painters who depicted nudity as a form of a revolution, a showcase of female power and superiority. But then there’s the usual portraiture of strangers, streets, scenery, nature, so on, so forth, nothing new, nothing interesting.

The last section caught my eye the most. It was composed of a dozen large scale portraits of females. The canvases were at least three by three feet, and the biggest in the middle was ceiling to floor. It made me stop to look how and why it was made. It was a face of a young woman; windblown hair, bright chocolate eyes that reflected the blue sky, full red lips, and a smile which brightened the whole gloomy and lonely room. It looked strangely familiar, as if I have seen this person a long time ago. I just wondered who was it and why did she look so familiar. I opened one of the brochures I held to see the description, in any case the name of the model would show. I regretted ever finding out who it was.