Writing Prompt: He tilted his head to the side.

Good morning all, today we have frost. Actual frost. It isn’t a bad frost but everything is very crispy outside. I think it might be time for the potted plants to make their annual move into the sun room. While the grass is crispy, the plants were elevated and spared the first of the frost. The temps didn’t actually dip low enough to do them any harm. So I’ll let them warm up in the sun and bring them in this afternoon in a grand promenade.

I know, I have been weather obsessed a lot this year. I think it is because the seasons seemed to have shifted a bit on me. I wanted to make sure it was actual shifting and not just a strange year. Admittedly the year I am comparing 2021 to is 2020 and it was the strangest of years, but that really can’t be helped now. The tracking has made me more weather cognizant as I work with my plants. But enough about my weather tracking hobby. It is time for the morning prompt. Are you ready? Good. Then let’s warm up out brains on this frosty morning with a new prompt. Timers set? Then let’s go.

This one seems interesting. I think I like the character but couldn’t focus on the actual scene I was putting him into. I think that just means that this either wasn’t his story or I need to think about the scene more. Or both. Either way I like the character.

Thursday, October 28th: He tilted his head to the side.

He tilted his head to the side.  The painting remained the same, just incomprehensible lines with slightly drippy looking dots placed in random looking locations.  He straightened his head trying to see if dead on helped the impression. 

‘Those jagged lines might be lightning,’ he thought. 

Art wasn’t his thing.  It never really had been his thing.  He understood that it played a vital role in human expression and honestly enjoyed listening to debates by art critics, historians and even the artists themselves as they debated details, themes and even emotion. He loved their passion and their description and discussions made him want to get it.

But he just didn’t and knew that even with the words of a hundred historians and critics running through his head he never really would.  He could intellectually know all of the details, but it was always knowing and not feeling.  He always suspected that feeling played a larger role in art appreciation.

He knew the lack was his and not the artists. 

As a general rule he stayed away from galleries and showings because of it.  He stuck with the art historians and critics instead.

‘Which is what got me into this in the first place.’ Jeffrey nodded slowly at the painting as though reaching some sort of deep internal and possibly spiritually moving conclusion, before turning and slowly walking on to another piece. He hoped he looked deep and not lost.

In an effort to appeal to his inner artist, after finding about his podcast collection an event was planned at a local gallery.  It was, he knew, designed to get on his better side so that when it came time to sit down and deal, he would be in a better frame of mind. 

Jeffrey wasn’t sure who chose this gallery or why it was specifically chosen, but the paintings had little appeal.  He didn’t recognize the names of any of the artists.  While he was certain there were millions of very famous artists he knew nothing about, it left him without anything to hold on to as he slowly meandered through the gallery.

He understood that the private tour before the meeting in the upstairs conference room was designed to flatter him and was considered a perk of using the site.  He knew that the gallery manager might even be dreaming of potential sales or at least more public recognition.  But he didn’t know anything about the artists and with his business hat on, all feelings of any sort were locked away. 

As he walked he read the small cards accompanying each piece.  He hoped for a name, a title even a theme that he might be able to grasp. 

While none of the artists were familiar, half of the pieces were given the rather unhelpful title of “Untitled”. The descriptions appeared to be written by fifth graders under a time crunch and told him little about the works he was seeing. He began to wonder if this was some sort of flummery designed to make an otherwise empty building look like a gallery.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s