Chapter 4
CHAPTER
FOUR
EMMA
“Name?” the girl at the entrance desk in the dimly lit reception area asked snootily as I walked towards her.
“Emma Belmont.”
She scanned her iPad for my name, using her long, red nails to scroll down the screen, and then she snapped, “You’re not on the list.” And put her iPad down, staring at me as if she was waiting for me to turn around and walk away.
“Well, I’m here from the Merivale Echo,” I added, injecting confidence into my voice.
She narrowed her eyes at me. “Why didn’t you say that then? Do you have any ID?” she hissed, looking decidedly pissed off. For the face of the gallery, standing front of house, she wasn’t doing a very good job at being welcoming.
I took my work pass from my handbag and showed it to her. It didn’t say reporter, but she didn’t look that closely, just turned her nose up and then tapped away on her screen before thrusting a lanyard at me labelled ‘Press’.
I gave her a wry smile as I took the lanyard and put it on, wishing I could tell her she was fucking rude, but I kept that in my head, and instead, I thanked her for her help, turned my back and walked away.
It was bad enough that I didn’t want to be here, working on a Friday night, when there was a gin and tonic with my name on it in a bar in this city.
But to have to deal with rude assholes too was trying my already super-thin patience.
But then, I did want a promotion at work.
I wanted it so badly I was prepared to enter this gallery with its electric buzz of thumping music that made my stomach roll with nerves.
You can do this.
You can do this.
You can do this.
I kept repeating over and over as I headed towards the black velvet curtains that separated the reception area from the main gallery. I would show Stephen Gold I was worth more than the menial tasks he’d always given me.
I can do this.
I straightened my back, stood tall and proud, and pushed my way through the curtains.
And behind, I found a staircase that led straight down into the depths of the building.
There was no red carpet, just a cement stairway with a single strip light overhead, leading the way, and a circular tunnel with shiny black tiles, giving it a gothic, underground station vibe.
I began to descend, my heels clicking on each step as I went, and the beat of the music grew louder as I headed further into the basement, mirroring the erratic beat of my nervous heart.
Once I reached the bottom, a huge, reinforced door stood in front of me.
I took a breath to right myself, remind myself who I was.
Then I pushed the heavy-duty metal door open and the noise from within amplified, consuming me with its power and intensity, as I entered the gallery.
Hypnotic beats thrummed through my body as I stepped over the threshold into the darkened space, and once inside, I stopped for a moment to take it all in.
The gallery had exposed brick walls, painted black, displaying a multitude of art that had lights fitted above so you could experience them in all their glory.
Those lights made them stand out against the black backdrop, like a statement left by each artist—I am here, and I will be heard.
Throughout the area of the gallery there were columns showcasing sculptures and artistic creations, with spotlights on the cement floor shining up at them.
Like a beam of light elevating them all the way to the stars that shone above us, making this urban gallery feel like it was blessed by a night sky overhead.
I’d never seen anything so beautiful and yet brutally real.
Futuristic art and design meets life, real life. The harsh realities of our existence.
The people here were dressed smartly, standing in groups, holding champagne glasses as they talked and laughed.
Waiting staff were walking around with trays of drinks and canapés, and rap music was playing in the background.
The clientele was obviously rich, the kind that could afford the art on display.
But the gallery itself felt young, urban, edgy, and my eyes didn’t know where to look first.
I opened my bag and clumsily felt around for my phone.
When I located it, I held it up and started to take photos of the room.
I felt a bump in my back as two guests opened the door behind me and walked into the gallery, barging into me as they did, making it clear I was in the way.
I apologised, even though it wasn’t really my fault, but they didn’t acknowledge me.
I righted myself, moved away from the door, and began to take a closer look at the art on the walls, dropping my phone back into my bag so I could give it my full attention.
To my left, was a huge canvas with a painted image of the Grim Reaper.
His finger was pointing down into the room, as if he was singling me out, and he looked so goddamn creepy it sent a shiver down my spine.
The words ‘Don’t get crazy with me. I’m better at it than you’ were written underneath, and then the artist’s name, Finn Knowles, was signed at the bottom.
I had no idea who that artist was, but I took a picture of the piece on my phone and added the name to my notes app.
I’d google him later and find out more about him and his work.
To the right was an image of the evolution of man, from apes to humans, walking in a line, until eventually, at the end, the human images turned into a barcode.
And on the other side of the barcode was a man with an axe, cutting through it.
‘Consume Life’ was the title, and the artist was listed as Shelley Masters.
The other pieces hung up were similar in their vibe.
I could tell these artists had a lot to say about life as they saw it.
They served political statements wrapped up in palatable pieces of art like the finest chefs in the city.
It was very Banksy-esque, and yet, it wasn’t available for the average Joe to see.
Not tonight, anyway. It seemed such a shame to have this art hidden away in a gallery.
A price for merely looking and consuming had already been placed on its head.
I snapped a few more photos on my phone and added Shelley Master’s name to my list.
Awestruck, I wandered further into the space, to have a closer look at the sculptures.
One particular piece caught my eye: a man’s hand holding a child’s, both hands emerging from soil, sprouting like flowers from the ground.
The man’s hand had blemished skin, mottled almost, like old burns had marked it.
But the child’s was flawless. A mix of a life lived and one about to start.
The exact opposite of each other. ‘The Beauty of Rebirth’ was the sculpture’s title, and below, the artist’s name was listed as Zak Atwood.
So many new artists were on display, and there was so much to learn from each piece.
I felt honoured to be experiencing them all tonight, and thoughts of Mr. Gold and the embarrassment he’d caused me earlier this evening faded away, replaced by awe and a hint of jealousy that I hadn’t created something to be proud of yet in my life.
These people were out there doing. I was grumbling in my head and wishing.
Tonight had to be a turnaround for me. Time to make my own mark and use my skills for writing in a way that I was truly proud of.
I started to type out a few ideas and thoughts on my phone as I ventured forward, making a left turn as I did, and then I stopped. My head whipped up as I saw the graffiti wall at the end of the gallery. My mouth hung open as I tried to digest what I was seeing.
Spotlights from the floor and ceiling shone onto the wall, and the words ‘Follow your heart’ were spray-painted right in the middle.
There was a heart shape around the words, taking up the whole wall, but that heart was shattered into pieces, and inside each piece was an image, a story, something the artist held dear—something as deep yet broken as the heart itself.
I took slow steps forward as I studied each section of the shattered heart, and the room I was standing in fell away as I lost myself in the wonder of it all.
On one piece there was money scattered about, but when I leaned forward to take a closer look, I noticed the image on the notes wasn’t a leader or person of notable standing, but a skull with a raven beside it, pecking at the carcass. A clear indication on how the artist felt about money and greed.
Another piece depicted a family; a mother holding a baby, as a man held her.
An imagine that we see every day in most homes.
A depiction of life as we know it. But this wasn’t like any family I’d ever seen before.
Their eyes shone back at me, inky black, like pieces of coal.
No feeling or emotion lay behind them, and their faces were frozen into a harsh, unfeeling glare.
They weren’t a loving family. They were an illusion.
Playing a part for the world, but they were dead inside.
Was this how the artist saw his own family?
Another section pulled my gaze away from the zombie family.
It was a book with the pages torn out, falling and scattering onto the ground.
The words on the pages had been replaced with droplets of blood, splatters on some.
But one page had clear, bold words written on it.
‘The Death of freedom of speech’. Knowing that books were being banned in parts of the world, books that told a story about those that didn’t always have a voice, books that elevated their plight, added to the tragedy of the statement on that page.
People were losing their voice, and it wasn’t right.
Another piece of the heart had music notes held behind the bars of a prison cell. A nod to the censorship that was akin to the books on the previous shattered piece.