I strode up to the cobblestoned path entering the well-reputed museum. The receptionist informed me that the curator would be here in a couple of minutes and handed me a brochure, gesturing me to look around the gallery. Annoyed at the lack of punctuality of the museum, I stuffed the brochure in my jacket and made my way inside the gallery.
As I strolled past every painting, bored at the insignificance of it all, I found the main attraction of the museum. The abstract painting with splashes of red, blue, purple and pink attracted many spectators who had major epiphanies at the mere sight of it. In my eyes, it looked hideous. Everyone in the room gazing at the art, was left speechless. So was I, but only at the realisation that a five year old could have made it.
But the more I looked at it the more intriguing it got. It almost felt as though the painting was taunting me with its vibrancy, beckoning me towards it. As I continued to stare, my vision started to become blurry. I looked down at my hands and they seemed to dissipate into paint. And I found myself dissolving into the very colours that I had despised, and no sooner I was being sucked into the painting. The last thing I remember was swirling into a multi-coloured whirlwind, different from the static monochrome reality I was used to.
I plunged down into a vast pool of paint confused at as to what or where I’d come to. Coated in paint, I tried to search for an exit, a way to escape. In the distance a doorway beamed with rays of white light. Knowing that this was my only way out, I started swimming towards that direction.
As I got nearer and nearer, the doorway shifted farther and farther away. Still, I pushed through the coloured waters and my own frustration, when suddenly a gigantic tide of scorching red paint splashed over me. The red paint evoked a rage that I had only felt when I was a child unable to keep my temper in check. It nudged and aggravated me to the point that would drive any sane person mad. As the fury gradually passed, I made an attempt to reach the doorway again.
The paint abruptly started changing blue, and what came after was a piercing feeling that could closest be described as grief. After a minute or two of experiencing this, it too passed. The numbness afterwards was quickly replaced by the coldness of the water. The water I noticed had turned purple. I already had enough of this torture, and what came after was a feeling of dread. The anxiety that I wouldn’t go back to my home, and meet my family or my friends.
In spite of such apprehension I managed to swim towards the light. The fear of not reaching home in time was swapped with a feeling of love. The adoration and affection was brought by the pink in the water that caressed and comforted me. Unknowingly I had let go because of this ease, seamlessly floating and moving with the current. As I drifted along with the tranquil waters, a certain clarity engulfed me. I realised that all of the emotions I experienced that were guised as colours, must have been all of the emotions that the artist went through and was only trying to portray. The paint turned transparent as my mind entered this state of lucidity.
Ironic how the very epiphanies that I had insulted before, was what my soul was in search for. I felt myself being transported, with different vibrant colours flashing before my eyes. Before I knew it my feet were back on the ground and I had returned to reality.
“Excuse me, the curator will see you now,” said the receptionist looking quizzically at my befuddled expression. I had a sudden impulse to leave the museum and head out.
Published: 2018-07-29 08:47:39
So I smiled at her, apologised for the inconvenience and hurriedly exited the museum. Once outside, I looked around at the bustling city, the cars zooming ahead, the lively people chatting in tune with the birds chirping. As a gush of wind came, I stood there for a moment noticing how the world seemed more colourful than it was before.