Granted

Like any artist, Jonah thought a lot about money. At this time of the year, forms had to be filled out, documents signed and initialed, calls made, emails sent, and even the odd fax shipped to keep his name in play and have his grant money coming in, as usual. In the early part of the new year, the first cheques would arrive, along with letters asking him to stay in touch with whatever agency provided the money. He would also make sure to note how quickly the money arrived and who seemed to be most tardy (they were usually connected to the government). He had work to do as soon as he found time for more than his art.

His work was sculpture, and since obtaining his second degree, he had made a good living from it. There had been shows at the college that led to some commissions from local businesses, one other college, and one public library that eventually removed his work after a complaint was made about its “phallic nature”. So, there was some money; just not enough money. There was work to do for his many potential sponsors.

Most of the grants were from the same web sites he had used previously. And the college also offered him a special deal as a graduate and provider of public and private art. But that still would not be enough money for the next project. So, there was some hunting to do.

First, there were the private institutions that wanted tax breaks. They had very specific instructions on what to do if Jonah really wanted to keep them as patrons. There was always the main document to fill in, along with various attachments that he kept on various flash and hard drives (CVs, cover letters, photographs, letters of intent, etc.) This continued through at least five different groups (he began to forget their names after he had to review all the conditions again and again). It was hard work.

This was enough for the first day, but Jonah kept looking through institutions, banks, insurance companies, law firms, etc. Surprisingly, they all had offers for artists, both established and up-and-coming talents. He smiled at one page that wanted only sculptors for their law firm (he knew the office; he remembered some of the public pieces he saw from a bus ride – truly hideous and clichéd). His application went in by the time he thought of what he wanted for lunch that day. It was not the work he wanted to be associated with at all.

A week passed. By this point, the first set of rejections would have been processed. Jonah could guess the names on that list (never hurt to keep hitting them back). And then there would be the ones who would offer the money – usually in two or three weeks – that wanted to ask more questions, especially of established artists who had grants, awards and commissions in the past that were expected to sustain them. But this time it was very different. No one wrote back, not even to reject his work.

It was not panic that Jonah felt (that sour sickness that punched him in the chest at his first barely-noticed vernissage). That was not what he felt. It was not fear, anxiety, nervousness or even anger. It was a special feeling of weightlessness, as if he were no longer stuck to one type of terrain. There was enough money to rent the studio for a few months (few meaning two-and-a-half months), and he could live there if his elderly landlord decided to forget that he existed. What became the one true worry was the set of habits he knew he could not shake. There was the food he now ate; there were cafes where his face was well-known; there were restaurants that accepted his tabs because they never passed beyond a full two weeks; there were friends he now had. That was work in itself.

Friends? Well, they were fellow artists (maybe a few artisans). They knew him for his work, had accepted him as a part of their community, and even acknowledged some of his talent. But friendship…? He began to doubt this as he thought of late nights avoiding or accepting bills from tired servers and tight faced managers. Were all of those relationships as important as he imagined them to be? A sad thought.

And then a letter and an email appeared on the exact same day and washed these thoughts out of his mind. The email and letter were both from the same institution, but Jonah could not recall writing to them. He did not find the name on the list of possible groups he had written to before; there was nothing in his search history to make sense of this.

The money was generous. Jonah tried not to let this influence him, but his brain wanted what it wanted and ignored the other letters and emails already sent and received. It was a very generous amount.

The process for accepting the grant was also unusual. Jonah accepted this as a price for the prize. He had more forms to fill out (paper and email documents), but they also wanted to meet him at a very specific time and place. For the first time, he felt a part of him shrink back from an offer. Meeting the people with the money was something deeply frowned upon by artists. You could meet a patron at a show, and let the gallery or office workers handle the greetings. Outside of such places, you did not want to put a face to a cheque. He decided to wait out the rest of the week for a message from any of the other potentials. One new group rejected him; two more stated they were no longer handing out grants; the last one asked if he could possibly donate some work and allow a committee to decide then whether he was worth the money. It was an easy decision.

He arrived at the building twenty minutes early in the late afternoon. It was a stylish, Art Deco, four-story space that he must have passed by at least once without noticing. But still, it was bothering him how he had not noticed the place before. In the lobby, there was a keypad to allow visitors to enter. And Jonah noticed that there was a piece of paper with instructions and his name on it taped to one of the inner lobby doors:

Hello Jonah!

This is to inform you that the keypad system is not functioning at the moment, and the inner doors will remain unlocked for the foreseeable future.

Please come to Room 302!

As he pushed through the doors, he noticed that there was a hum running through the vestibule. And when the doors shut behind him, there was an audible click and buzz. Jonah decided to check what he already knew: the door was now locked. After pushing against the door with all his strength twice, he took out his phone and decided to call the police.

He paused and looked out the glass doors. As he looked at his phone, he had a thought: Is this a test? Maybe... He decided to walk through the lobby, a dull-looking and clean space, and checked the elevators. The buttons did not light up. He looked around and put his phone down. They were out of service (another notice was taped to the doors, along with an arrow pointing in the direction of the stairwell). There was also no hum now; he felt the buttons again. Yes, Jonah thought. This is a test. He walked over to the stairwell.

No lights were on when he opened the door. He felt in the dark for a switch, using the light from his phone to see ahead and up the stairs. Jonah began to wonder about those notes. He had seen his name on both of them; the elevator note just said: Sorry, Jonah! If he kept looking in the dark, there would probably be another note available for him. And there was, although the light switch he found did not work and he had to read it by cell phone light:

Jonah!

As you have probably guessed by now, this is a test (we like to think of it as a study of our potential subjects clients).

You will encounter something unpleasant in the stairwell.

Good luck!

He kept the light burning on his cell phone. When he stared at the fading battery indicator, Jonah decided to shut it off for a moment. And he kept walking upstairs.

Something unpleasant… He could not hear anything as he made step after step. In fact, as he noted on the second-floor landing, he could not hear a single thing. There were no noises from the street; no humming or circuitry or the sound of human activity inside the building. Nothing. Just his steps rising up in the dark that was supposed to contain something unpleasant.

He was not as scared as he thought they wanted him to be. They had a sense of humour, whoever these people were. On the third floor, Jonah noticed that the door would not give. The more he tried to pull it open, the more he heard something scratching across the metal floor of the landing. And when he turned on his cell phone’s light, he found what he imagined was the “unpleasant” thing mentioned in the note.

A small sculpture.

He almost dropped his phone. Jonah knew exactly what he was looking at and almost choked on his nerves. How did they get this one? Was it a copy? In his head, he tried to rationalize what he was seeing.

It was his first successful piece; the first one he had won any recognition for many years ago. That was when he was still a student. There was an on-campus competition for new works produced by the incoming class. And he had this piece at home for ages wondering what to do with it. Winning an award for it was what gave him the confidence to major in the arts when he was still uncertain about what to study (the other option was business school).

Very cute. Too smart.

He picked it up – still very heavy – and opened the door to the third floor.

The room was clearly marked. Right beside the stairwell door, a series of arrows on a fresh set of paper sheets guided him to a frosted glass door with the name of the organization and the room number under a very large sheet of the same type. It was another message.

Jonah listened carefully. Still, there was no noise; not a single voice or even a gust of air passing through the air vent above the door and through the ceiling. Behind the door, he could see no motion beyond the sheet of paper. There was a faint sense of light from outdoors – it was getting late – but he saw no one and nothing moving there. And he kept staring at the large sheet of paper.

It was one last test. The note, visible through the paper and written on the other side of it, had large block letters:

IF YOU HAVE MADE IT THIS FAR, THEN YOU SHOULD KNOW WHAT TO DO NEXT…

He put the sculpture down and looked over the note again. He would know what to do? Jonah, for a moment that he would savour again and again, really did want to kill someone. Was that a part of it? Was that acceptable? They must have known that very few candidates would put up with all of this. He stepped back and walked down the hallway. Still, no noise in the building. Just the lights with a slight buzz. Not a breath of air in the vents. His skin felt hot. It was not just the lack of air-conditioning that raised the heat in him. He was truly and completely angry. He went back to the stairwell and searched for his phone to check for a signal. Not one bar.

At the stairwell door, Jonah realized he had forgotten something.

His first sculpture.

There was a very unpleasant thought in his mind.

He took down the sheet of paper and held the note in his hand for a long time. He was struggling with his anger now; raw, unprofessional anger over the whole process. Jonah had done everything up to this point more from amusement at his situation than anything else, especially after he accepted that he was probably being filmed right now. But, the anger…

He was hungry, tired and now burdened with his first prize-winning work of art in his hands.

He looked at his sculpture.

He looked at the frosted glass of the door.

He knew what he had to do.

The camera inside the room caught the exact moment when the sculpture smashed through the glass, so he watched it on repeat multiple times. This particular subject was wiser than many of the others, this Jonah…

The management was already pleased with his work, but Jonah was doing very well with this test. The money had already been transferred when he entered the building, but, as he analyzed the data in the lab, he was pleased to see that this new one was not wasting their time. There had been some difficulty in finding the original work, but based on the actions recorded, it was worth it. Perhaps they should try a private apartment next time? A school gymnasium? A new condominium project? Yes, those would work. That would make an interesting challenge.

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You can find more poems, stories, and articles by Kendall Defoe on my Vocal profile. I complain, argue, provoke and create...just like everybody else.

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