Today, I set up the typewriter and gave students a prompt for the day. "Tell a story from the perspective of a painting in a museum." A couple students gave it a whirl, and I later found myself typing something up between classes. This is what I came up with:
Lines of people, young old and everywhere in between, file past me in a never ending sequence. My master and creator put me here for a reason he failed to tell me, nor any of my friends or siblings. All we know is that we are to sent here to lean against a plain, white wall in absolute silence and observe those who pass us by. I have learned a lot.
Some people stand in front of me for hours, staring at me with loving adoration. Some pass me by, barely even glancing at me. Once, someone tried to touch me. She had been one of the few who stands in front of me for a long while, eyes full of wonder and mystery. Just as her fingers began to graze my skin, blaring alarms filled the cold room where I spend my days, and men in uniforms dragged her away, tears rolling down her lovely face, and velvety fingers still outstretched to me. I haven't seen her since. Oh, how I long to be touched. Not one soul has touched me since my master brought me into existence. It is a tortured existence; a lonely existence. I pray daily that the daring girl with the velvet fingers and bluest eyes will come back to me, but I doubt my master's masters will let her. Still, I love her so.
Some people stand in front of me and cry. I do not know why they cry, but I like them best (other than my Velvet girl, of course). They stay for varying amounts of time, some sitting on the floor at my feet for a long time, others just passing through, but both always seeming to lov and appreciate me as I am. Some people talk about me very loudly, their voices echoing through the room. They use words to describe me I've never heard anyone else use before, not even the man who created me. I have learned that these people are called "Art Critics". They are usually not very nice at all, and I wish that they would not come to visit.
On some nights, my creator come to visit me again. He doesn't touch me, but he stands next to me and wears a black suit and a white shirt. On these special nights, he looks much nicer than he used to at the studio where I was born. I like to think he dresses up just for me, but I suspect he really dresses up for the people who file past me on these nights. They are a chatty bunch, and they carry tall glasses full of something sparkly. They wear nice clothes and laugh loudly, but graciously. They are alright, I guess, but the men in uniforms and my master's master seems to like these people best of all.
It's a strange life I lead, and I often wonder if this is how it is for some of the people who come to look at me. Apparently this existence of mine will last a long, long time. There are some living here who have not seen their creators in many years; some even live behind red ropes and glass cages. They are the oldest and wisest among us, though they do not talk much, not even when there are no people here to look at us. The people in the lines seem to like these paintings best of all, though I do not understand why. Many are cracked and tired, and some even cry at night. It's not any sort of crying as I've seen from the people, but a much quieter, much more lonesome cry.
I do not understand most of what I see throughout my days here, but I guess I have plenty of time to learn. The critics say that I will be here a long time. I have not told anyone this, but I hope that I am not. I hope that someday soon my Velvet girl will come back and take me away from here.
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