EPT
The walls and pillars of the Museum are massive and stretch toward a distant ceiling. The marble of which all the Museum’s surfaces are composed is a pearlescent white veined with deep black. Ambient light can be seen throughout, but no source can be found. While the floors, ceilings, and many of the pillars wear naught but the reflective and sterile tones of black and white, the marble of the walls can barely be seen beneath the confluence of colors. You realize that they are bedecked with paintings, each of which portrays a central character or group of characters. No painting looks remotely similar; the styles, shades, sizes, and frames are remarkably distinct. In fact, the only commonalities of the paintings are that their subjects appear incredibly realistic, regardless of style, and that the paintings are indescribably beautiful. You remember your appointment once again. You wonder if you might be late. Can’t have that. Can’t be late for your sitting.
You walk through the Museum, each step bringing you closer to your appointment. If you stopped to consider it, you’d ponder how you knew where to go, but you do not stop. You amble, still dazed, through the labyrinthine corridors and halls of the Museum, staring blankly at the sea of portraits that crashes upon the shores of your gaze. There are idyllic scenes of pleasure and joy, heroic depictions of triumph and courage, agonizing illustrations of burning and torture. Some of the expansive galleries include sculptures, all of which also depict a sentient creature. The statues and carvings come in all shapes and sizes, but if you were to look closely, you would notice pained expressions on their faces, as if they were straining against hidden shackles. Occasionally you’ll notice a painting without a central focus, setting it apart from its neighbors. These scenes confer a sense of emptiness and unease, as if something were meant to occupy that space and its absence is somehow anathema. The most disturbing of the pieces contain the remnants of their once-central subjects: a foot yearning to run back into place, hands struggling to grasp the frames of their paintings, the very top of a head, eyes opened wide with fear.
Then you arrive at your destination. Of course, there is a line (there is always a line). No one in line speaks. If they do anything, they look at the paintings, so you do as well, uninterested in disturbing the status quo. Besides, speech seems so unnecessary in the face of the works of art that surround you. You wait, continuing to admire the paintings, carvings, drawings, and sculptures. In your ever-present haze, you fail to notice how long it takes you to reach the front of the line, though you are vaguely aware of stepping forward politely when space becomes available and of those who fall silently in line behind you. When your name softly collides with your ears, your head rears back in surprise; you’d no idea you’d already reached the head of the line. Inevitably, the call is repeated: “You’re next. The Artist is waiting for you.”
You walk toward the simple chair in the center of the studio and sit. Your eyes wander over the paintings drying on the walls, the paintings of those who stood in line before you. The paintings’ subjects, however, are gone. You assume they left through the door on the other side of the studio. The door in question is a wooden one, immaculately carved, its ridges and creases perfectly smooth. It alone is free of the paint splatters and disorganized art supplies scattered across the rest of the room. The blotches of colorful paint even coat the hands and feet of the Artist, who greets you in a cool, measured tone. The Artist wears all white, save for the paint that covers the Artist’s extremities. Sometimes the Artist is an exhausted-looking old man, others a solemn young woman, still others a boy on the verge of tears. The Artist is always pale with dark hair. The Artist examines you, then spends a minute or two preparing the studio. Usually, the Artist readies a canvas or, more rarely, a block of stone, steel, or clay. Occasionally, the Artist might present you with a painting that already appears finished, save for a blank space in which you could be painted. This painting might be of family or loved ones that you haven’t seen in ages. The Artist will ask if you’d rather be added to this painting, instead of to your own. Regardless of your answer, the next step is always the same: you wait as the Artist places you in the perfect light and pose. When everything is just so, the Artist begins to work.
Your sitting passes in silence. Every once in a while, the Artist asks a question about that time before you awoke in the Museum. Did you have a favorite food? Salted pork. Mmm. Sounds great. What was your greatest fear? Pain? Yeah, I get that. Is there anything you truly regret? … I don’t know. Huh. It’s tough to tell I think. Was there anyone you really loved? … Oh, okay, I won’t pry. There’s no judgment, and besides, the Artist knows what your answers would be whether you speak them aloud or not. Time passes (you think) and eventually the Artists sits back, pleased, and announces that the piece is complete. The rendering is never of you in the chair, but in a scene far more awe-inspiring, like those in the gallery. It’s always incredible and it brings tears to your eyes. You ask for no changes and the Artist never offers. The work is perfect. While you stare into the art you inspired, you suddenly find yourself staring at back at yourself. You look into your own eyes from the canvas rather than into the canvas with your own eyes. You see yourself look up at the Artist. You watch the Artist exchange words with you that you cannot hear, then you watch yourself walk away. You witness your own passage through the immaculate wooden door. You don’t see what is on the other side. No one does. Satisfied and alone, the Artist looks at the painting, at you, and smiles. Another job well done. Only then do you start to feel the blessing or curse that is the Artist’s rendering of you and that which your life has wrought. The Artist holds you lovingly, ignoring any of your questions or protests, and hangs you on the marble wall to dry.
While you acclimate to the confines of your piece of art, you watch the next subjects sit for their appointments. Even if it occurred to you to warn them or interrogate them, they wouldn’t hear you. Nor would they listen. You see them stand and walk through the wooden door, you see the Artist admire them and hang them on the wall. You see the Museum’s curators take the dried paintings and move them to their proper places in the Museum. They follow an unknown plan, but it is clear that it is a plan. Eventually you too are taken and the Artist and the studio leave your view. You never see the Artist again. A Curator hangs you in the gallery and there you stay. A monument to your life that no one will ever truly see nor truly admire. A single beautiful memory in the Museum that is death.
You can find this small sliver of Iris and quite a few more (plus some other things) on the N3rd Dimension.
but I still enjoy reading these whenever!
