“Forgive me, Max. I know it must sound like I’m questioning your expertise. But are you sure, Max?” James Moultrie would not look at the oil canvas as his shaking finger pointed towards the piece. “Do you really want to mount it up in the gallery?”
“That’s exactly what I want to do.”
James sighed and looked down at his shoes.
Max smiled. He could finally appreciate the templates’ worth. In the old days, Max would’ve needed to show more regard for the opinion of a gallery board member such as James Moultrie. In the old days, the board members played a vital role in raising the funds that supported the gallery. But now, thanks to the templates, the gallery supported itself, and Max realized that board members like James Moultrie were paper tigers possessing little say concerning the gallery’s operation as long as the gifts shop’s business in selling templates filled the coffers.
“But, Max, it’s not even a template.”
Max snorted. “Don’t worry about that. There are some open days on the gallery’s calendar. I won’t be bumping any templates out of purchased showings.”
“Can you at least tell us what that canvas is supposed to be about?”
“Not really, James, and that’s part of its beauty.”
The oil canvas that stood in front of Max and the board members gathered in the gallery’s conference room looked nothing like anything mounted upon the wall during the curator’s earliest days of his tenure. It certainly looked nothing like the timid templates sold in the gift shop. A pair of faceless figures embraced one another in the foreground. Swirls of skin tones knotted together upon the forms, allowing the viewer to perceive the feminine and male shapes of the work while simultaneously making it difficult to see how those figures were separate. Subtle shadows provided dimension on the otherwise featureless forms. The canvas’ oils blended together as if those figures were composed of wax, giving the viewer the impression that one could reach out and squeeze those two shapes until they oozed out from between the clutched hand’s fingers.
Tongues of oranges and reds licked every inch of the background, composing a field of flames swirling around the female and male forms. The swirls blurred and danced, and the sensation that those flames flickering and burning magnified the longer one stared upon the canvas. If one watched long enough, as Max had, those figures drew closer and closer together until they burned and melted into one another.
“Well, Max, I simply don’t like it. I might not understand it, but I don’t like it. I might not have the training you do, but there’s something about it.” James frowned.
Max nodded as his eyes stared at one of the background’s orange swirls. “I think that’s part of what makes it special. You can nearly feel the heat of that painting if you look long enough. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
Ms. Bernice Aldrich, member of the board for a decade and a participant in her church’s bell choir, shook her head. “Well, Mr. Sievers, that may well be. But a template doesn’t make you feel that way. And I’m happy that a template doesn’t.”
Board member Mitch Hanson frowned. “Do we even know who painted it? Do we have any idea where it came from?”
Max pulled a wrinkled piece of white paper from his pocket. “There was some information on the shipping invoice. Just says it came from the Water District. No indication who the artist might have been.”
James sighed. “That’s a really rundown part of town. Knowing where it comes from doesn’t make me feel any better about this painting.”
Max grinned. “But you can’t deny that this painting has power. I think it deserves a place on one of the gallery’s walls.”
Ms. Aldrich held up a hand. “You’re the curator, Max. None of us wish to question your judgment, or to infringe upon your right to decide what makes it into the gallery. I might not like that painting at all, but I know that doesn’t mean it doesn’t have any value. Just remember that the painting cannot replace any of the template exhibits our customers have already paid for.”
Max nodded. “I promise that no purchased template will lose any time on the wall.”
James helped Max carry that large painting to the gallery’s back exhibition chamber, a room less frequented by customers visiting the gift shop to replenish their templates and brushes. As he held the frame so that Max could mount it, James concentrated so that his hands did not slip and touch any of the oil glistening on the canvas. Peering at the work once its mounting was complete, he thought the painting’s impact more palpable than it had been in the conference room. James refused to take another look at the work and retreated from the gallery without voicing another objection to Max. He knew he could say nothing to persuade the stubborn curator to take that painting down.
James did his best to convince himself that his worry was trivial. After all, Max Sievers had devoted his life to the study of art, and the curator’s judgment should be trusted. James reminded himself that their gallery was lucky to have a curator as experienced as Max, a man whose expertise stretched back to a time even before the templates. If anyone knew what was best to be done with such a strange painting, it would be Max.
So James told himself he had no right to fear that strange painting.
Yet James slept poorly and little through the following night. And when he woke in the morning with a painful throbbing in his hands, James was alarmed and frightened to see that something had burned his fingertips into blisters.