You will look at me. Through the glass case, you will squint and furrow your brow. You will ignore the placard beside me, or else your unseeing eyes will skim over it. And you will laugh, or you will scoff, but either way, you will say it: “I could’ve made that.” Your words are a papercut, barely skimming the surface, let alone chipping my paint, but they burn and itch and sting, and will forever. Your eyes are clear and functional, the sclera, pupil, and iris all in their proper positions, yet you miss it all. How is it that I can see more than you? You are the skeptic, and you shall be the death of me.
You will hear about me. You will tilt your head, politely hearing but not listening to the tour guide. It is all a jumble of words and terms you know but do not understand. You came here because you were invited or because you wanted to seem worldly. But either way, it is because you want to hear the approval from those around you. Or perhaps just to pass the time. You will forget me, your newly acquired knowledge spilling from your ears as soon as you set foot in the gift shop. I do not blame you. You are the passerby, and you will forget me as I forget you.
You will smell me. You will click your pen, write your notes, and sterilize your scalpel. You get straight to the point. You cut through every layer from the epidermis, the primer, the undercoat, straight to my throbbing heart. You will inhale the scents before you: the blood, the sweat, the ink, every missed opportunity and misplaced stroke. You take it in, you understand it, you breathe it, and you exhale onto the paper your article: introduction, compliment, criticism, compliment, conclusion. You are the critic, and you are my lifeblood as I am yours.
You will feel me. You will reach toward the glass case, wishing you could stroke your fingers over every swath, smear, and smudge of paint. You will roll down the grass hills in the landscape, you will bump shoulders with the subject of the portrait, and you will toss the apple in the still-life from hand to hand, admiring its exquisite shine. You will run your fingers over my scars, every faded incision and every blistered papercut, and you will weep, your tears wetting my paint, making me feel like I am being born again. You are the appreciator, and I will weep with you.
I am on the tip of your tongue. I am a memory, I am something never seen before, I am disturbing and comforting. But most of all I am an annoyance, for I am begging to put down on paper. You will lean over the white canvas, and you will throw your palette down in frustration. Your tears will drip down my blank white surface. You will approach one day, with sure steps and a straight back, and will reach for the drink you placed beside you, only to put a cup of paint water up to your mouth by mistake. The bitter aftertaste will not fade for some time, even after you have spat it all over the floor. But bit by bit, stroke by stroke, I will come into existence. I am disturbing and comforting; I am a memory, and I am something never seen before. But most of all I am atrocious, a paltry attempt at art. You will feel all your time is wasted, and your identity as an artist is a farce. But I will be hung up in galleries and museums and exhibitions, examined, cut open, stitched back up, unmade, and born again, over and over. But most of all I am an annoyance, for I will never be at the tip of your tongue again.
I am no longer yours.