Blue Knuckle
March 7th, 2021
Starring: The Patron (20+)
THE PATRON
Thinking you’re unique is one of the most painful cognitive pitfalls of life.
First, there’s the hurt that comes with realizing you aren’t unique, followed by the shame from thinking you were unique to begin with. A real one-two punch. You wonder how it’s possible; you, a breathing, coexisting being, could be so certain, so bowled over with abject belief, to not think that others can think and do as you do. How did that happen? Who told you you were so special so much, you’ve begun to think you are? If it wasn’t mom, if it wasn’t dad, then who? The world?
That's the internal monologue, standing at the back of the museum line. 63 minutes till close, with 100 people queued in front of me.
My original thinking? There would be none. 5:30pm on a Friday?? I figured most of the tourist riff-raff would be out at the bars, the shops, tucked in their Airbnbs prepping for an overpriced riverside dinner. Meanwhile, I’d can-can through the double doors, stroll down the hallowed, empty, art filled halls, and have my hour. My moment. The cultural exchange you make the pilgrimage for.
Little old me thought I could play the system. Now I wasn’t even going to get in.
At the top of the hour, the line started moving: five at a time, every two minutes. That calculus puts me at the kiosk by 5:50.
5:52, I’m in the booth. 5:53, I'm robbed of 18 dollars. 5:54, the entrance to the main hall.
36 minutes on the clock. Go.
29 minutes. Each gallery is its own Guernica: a jumbled mess of torsos, shoulder bags, wide eyes, tour guides, tippy toes, outstretched arms holding Nikons. Space and time are meaningless. Chaos reigns.
19 minutes. I skip whole wings, trying to hit the hits. It's funny...everyone seems to have the same idea! I feel claustrophobic, sick. We’re not consumers, we're cows, lining up to be stun-gunned by a Monet or Picasso. Enough time for a glance, then whisked away by the crowd, one step closer to slaughter. At least I can say I saw them.
9 minutes. Sorrow builds. I had come to the pinnacle: the city of finest things, the mecca of art, only to wish I hadn’t come at all. Monolingual, predictable, and pathetic: a true American in Paris.
5 minutes. The intercom calls out. The cows raise their heads and start their shuffle out. I consider hiding in the bathroom to give myself some more time. The gallery guard gives me the eyes. She seems to know.
3 minutes. In my meander towards the exit, I've stumbled into a small room. Five works, with no guard watching over them. A flash of blue pulls my eyes to the corner. A simple portrait. Unknown Man, 1906, by some fauvist I’ve never heard of. I love it.
2 minutes. I get close. Closer than I’ve ever been to art. A finger’s length away. I see the texture of the brushstrokes, the tiniest flecks of oil paint. The signature’s clear as day.
I was having it. The experience I wanted to get. But it wasn’t enough. I needed a deeper connection. Something noone else could have.
I touched it. With my knuckle, right in the center of his nose. I braced for the alarms, but nothing sounded. No guards caught me, no cows walked by.
So I held it there. For the whole last minute.
I took away my finger. The painting looked the same, but my knuckle was blue. I laughed. I had blue knuckle! The mark of unrepeatable cultural exchange, right on my skin. Good luck finding that at the gift shop.
At 6:29, nestled in a surveillance camera hard drive, I’m caught. Maybe they’ll find it. Call the guards, the police, Interpol. But for now, it’s too late. I’m back on the cattle train, following the masses out the double doors, into the Parisian night. One of the tourists. Just like everybody else.