Just A Touch

Playing “Wed, Bed, Behead” in the middle of the American Regionalism exhibit has to be the second most ridiculous thing Ilissa has heard all morning.

The first most ridiculous thing comes from the couple standing in front of her current ‘behead’ piece–American Gothic, a 1930s piece by someone whom she will easily forget about as soon as she stops looking at the information plaque.

The woman, whom Ilissa assumes to be the wife, has taken up the occupation of asking whom she assumes to be the husband “if she looks okay,” and the husband–the poor thing–has replied with nothing short of a languid “Yes, darling, you challenge even the art here.”

Ilissa is not sure why he is lying, but if he’s not gonna point out the woman’s uneven foundation, then neither is she.

Floating to the next room, Ilissa makes a mental note of anything that looks even remotely suggestive for her “bed” piece–which is not hard at all, because she’s just found herself in Renaissance Sculpture, and Hercules and Cacus are frowning at her like she’s the one with her junk out.

“Intended as a symbol of the Medici's political power, after it was ERECTED in 1534 it soon became covered in graffiti.”

Ilissa rolls her eyes and turns on her heel.

Chocolate–the budding art major who insists on being called ‘Chocolate’ despite that being the absolute worst nickname ever–grins with full, gapped teeth. “I’m already bedding this one, so go find your own handsome hunk.”

“This game is stupid,” Ilissa sighs again, planting a firm hand on the back of her neck and rolling her shoulders, “How am I supposed to even play this in a museum? Kiss, Marry, Kill is for normal stuff…like real-life people. Not lifeless paintings and stone.”

“It’s Wed, Bed, Behead, you heathen,” Chocolate scolds, yanking Ilissa by the hand and dragging her through the rest of the naked sculptures, “And they aren’t lifeless. They’re art. It makes you feel things.”

Ilissa calls bullcrap, but says nothing, choosing instead to preserve both their friendship and Chocolate’s feelings.

It isn’t that she doesn’t like art. She thinks it’s interesting. Different styles, different times, different people in different places. Respecting art is pretty easy, as far as skills to show off in an AP Art History class go. But feeling art? Ilissa has stood in front of countless paintings, either on purpose or against her will at the hands of Chocolate, and felt absolutely…nothing.

(This, of course, does not include Dadaism–because Dadaism is terrifying, and she will be beheading at least three of them for the next round because of this.)

After being dragged into what she thinks is post-impressionism and suffering through an explanation of why Chocolate would bed a particular self-portrait of Vincent Van Gogh, Ilissa sighs.

Part of her wants.

It’s like watching someone make an inside joke right in front of you, and they can’t explain it, because you just had to be there. The plaque spotlights glare at her for even daring to ask what is so great about a bunch of old paintings anyway?

“Alright, lightning round!” Chocolate simpers a little too loud, catching the attention of the couple Ilissa noticed earlier. They frown, and Chocolate makes a point of staring them into oblivion as they scoff and move on. “And I’m gonna tell you right now, don’t make any googly eyes at Vincent Van Gogh.”

Ilissa thinks for a minute. “Behead?”

A sly grin splits her mouth past her teeth “Bed.”

“You’d bed Vincent Van Gogh?”

“You wouldn’t?!” Chocolate asks, aghast. “Have you seen that stark expression, those tantalizing eyes, that insepid–”

“Whatever!” Ilissa gags, covering her ears, “I’m going back to Renaissance.”

“Tell Hunk-ules I said hiiii.”

“You’re so gross,” Ilissa chastises under her breath with a smile.

Back in Renaissance, Ilissa is once again surrounded by naked, stone men, and the…longing creeps just around the edges of her mind. She folds her arms across her chest and cocks her head to the side–a mimicry of understanding that Chocolate had inspired.

What did she see in all this?

What is the point?

And why can’t she see it, too?

Ilissa sighs, giving what is likely just a replica of David a pat on the back. “What makes you so special, big guy?” She asks in futility, because it’s just stone, and it can’t speak back to her. It can’t even turn its head to look at her.

This frustrates her beyond words–mostly because it’s stupid and she feels stupid for even feeling this stupid. She is resigned to believe that art really is just paints and stone and brushes and clay, but…there were people who created entire buildings just to house it all. People who went out of their way to drop thousands of dollars on it. People who could sit at a singular painting and stare for hours.

The longing in her grows fangs and sinks all the way down to her stomach.

She doesn’t get it.

Steeling herself to see which of Van Gogh’s portraits has tempted Chocolate into the commission of mental sin, Ilissa rolls her neck as she attempts to walk past the rest of the Renaissance paintings, but--

She catches sight of it–a replica, no doubt, because of course the real one wouldn’t be here.

Her feet drag, as if to warn her against staring too long at this equally naked man, but Ilissa is deafened to it, pulling on the thread of curiosity ebbing in her. The spotlit plaque is the only thing that steals her attention momentarily: The Creation of Adam, Michaelangelo.

Ilissa squints at what appears to be nothing more than a convincing photograph, framed up on this wall. Again, she can understand why it might be respectable–for that time period, this level of work would have been inconceivable, the level of detail nearing that of witchcraft. The assumed Adam is languidly and seemingly irredeemable, and his Lord…

His Lord…reaching back?

Ilissa remembers the few times her mother used to roll her out of bed for church. It wasn’t that they were seriously religious, but it was one of the few times she saw her siblings actually eat well, and her mother smile. The few times that there would be laughter at the kitchen table. The few times where the smoke of burning pancakes would curl and choke the air around them.

Ilissa remembers.

She does.

Just a touch--in a way that she doesn't entirely understand.

But isn’t that ridiculous?! Art is just pretty paints on papers and papyrus, and Michealangelo or whoever was just some guy who did an amazing paint job.

And who cares if Adam's Lord is reaching back? From everything that she remembered, humans were evil, truly the bad guys of their very own story. After all, what other creature on earth is out to sabotage themselves, acknowledge that maybe they really are the banes of their own existences, and continue to live knowing that maybe they really couldn’t do anything about it?

Just billions of bodies, all trying, all failing, to do what they could not.

…so why would Adam’s Lord reach back?

Why reach for a thing that would fail? Why continue to reach for a creature that could not live up to a standard? Why almost touch if Adam could not feel fully?

Upon her last statement of inquiry, Ilissa takes a full step back, and turns sharply on her heel.

Why almost touch if you could not feel fully?

Ilissa refuses to admit to herself, as she stalks out of the Renaissance exhibit, that perhaps Chocolate is not such a liar. Perhaps it is her pride, or the fear of being wrong. Unlike Adam, she will not point out a finger, because if she does, it will be like giving up. She already can’t stand the small, mocking space between her and art, because it is not fair.

She can’t stand that the small, mocking space almost disappeared even more.