Chapter 5
Chapter Five
HAPPILY EVER BEFORE
Will
Everything feels more real before the crowds come, before the space fills with shuffling feet, whispered conversations, and the occasional teenage boy laughing at an exposed breast.
Mack has been guarding these halls long before I ever strolled through the door. He gives me his usual nod as I walk in. "Morning, Mr. Sterling."
“Will," I correct him for probably the thousandth time. "We both know the real Mr. Sterling has set foot in this wing exactly twice since donating enough money to get his name on it.”
"Whatever you say, Mr. Sterling," Mack says. He's been here long enough to remember when I was just another rich kid here for the galas not the galleries, before I fell in love with these walls and everything they hold.
There’s a wooden bench in the center of the main gallery that sits like a well-loved centerpiece. Its oak surface burnished to a soft glow by countless visitors. More than just a place to rest, it's positioned perfectly to take in the art from every angle, as if it were placed there by someone who understood the need to pause and absorb beauty.
I lie down and stretch out across it, my feet hanging off one end, my head propped against the other. Mack won't tell . He's seen me in here too many mornings, trying to find answers in brushstrokes and gilt frames.
People come to sit here for all sorts of reasons, I just have the benefit of doing it after hours.
Every Wednesday there's the retired art teacher who brings her sketchbook to draw shadows that are reminiscent of Sargent. Her hands might shake more now than they did in her youth, but she still catches the nuance in every shade.
Then there's the businessman who started showing up a few times a week during his lunch breaks after his divorce. For a while, he just sat in silence, staring at the walls like they might hold answers. I pretend not to notice when he wipes his eyes.
My favorite is the young couple who come every Saturday morning and make up the stories behind the paintings. Never actually caring about the historical accuracy, just telling tales between themselves more outlandish than the last.
Sometimes college students cluster on the bench with their laptops, writing papers. Sometimes they find themselves in the company of professors who help them do it.
Last week, a young girl in light-up sneakers sat here with her grandfather and asked the question we’ve all wanted to know since the dawn of portraiture, ‘Why do they look so serious?’ she asked. ‘Because sitting still that long makes anyone grumpy.’
"Rough night?" Mack asks, making his usual rounds preparing to open.
"My brother paid me a visit." I fold my hands behind my head, staring up at the ceiling. "Showed up to remind me that I'm throwing my life away, you know, the usual. "
"Ah." Mack's been here for enough of my family drama to fill a soap opera.
"Apparently, it's fine to throw money at art, but god forbid you actually decide to make that a career." I gesture vaguely at the massive Sterling plaque by the entrance.
I'm lying here in a wing my family paid for, surrounded by art they raised money for, while being the family disappointment for loving it too much.
From my horizontal position, the painting takes on a different perspective. The four sisters seem to float in their dim interior, their white dresses glowing against the shadows. I've given probably hundreds of tours of this painting, explaining its composition, its historical context, its influence on portraiture. But right now, all I can think about is how the youngest daughter is half-hidden in shadow, like she's trying to escape the frame entirely. I get it.
"You know what kills me?" I say to the ceiling, to Mack, to the girls in the painting who've been listening to my problems for years. "When I applied for this job, I didn’t tell them , I wanted this, on my own, and when I got the offer I was overjoyed with a sense of accomplishment. I was sure it was the gallerist pun I made that solidified it. It wasn’t until I was leaving that I was told to ‘thank my parents’ for their latest contribution."
Mack and these paintings have heard more of my confessions than any priest.
“You know what’s worse? I actually studied art history. I interned at three different galleries. I wrote my thesis on ‘The Role of Museums in Shaping Contemporary Art History.’ But none of that matters now, does it? It's all just window dressing on what everyone assumes is another trust fund hobby pretending to be a real job."
There it is. The quiet part I don’t often say out loud. It’s privileged and uninteresting, but it's the lens through which I know I’m viewed by more people than I’d want to admit.
The museum will open in an hour. Soon, these quiet halls will fill with visitors. There will be tourists clutching guidebooks, students with their sketch pads, and locals who've seen these paintings a hundred times but keep coming back. The magic of the early morning will fade into the busy rhythm of a regular day.
I stand up, straightening my shirt, cuffing my sleeves just enough to let some of the ‘Hands of God and Adam’ make an appearance.
‘Leave the art on the walls,’ my mother said when she first spotted it. As if I haven't made my entire body a gallery of the things I love.
The room develops from dawn to actual morning, like a sharpening polaroid. Soon, Marian from the gift shop will arrive, singing show tunes under her breath as she arranges postcards and art books. Dr. Wilder will sweep through on her way to her office in the conservation department, already talking about light exposure and humidity levels.
The museum will wake up, like a living thing stretching out its limbs.
I check my schedule for the day, three general tours, one specialized tour of the Impressionist collection for a group of art students, and a private tour for some donor's family that the development office begged me to take.
"Time to earn my keep," I say, standing up. "Better get ready," I say to Mack, resuming professional posture. "Your adoring public awaits." As I nod to the door where they are just being opened. Mack being one of those institutions in a place like this that will outlast us all.
I check that my badge is visible, run a hand through my probably hopeless hair that dried on the walk over here, and head towards my office to grab my notes for the day.