The Work of Art

Today I started the first day of my work placement at an art gallery.

Which is a euphemistic way of saying, Today I painted the walls of an abandoned bank for three hours.

It wasn't the only thing I did. I also drank coffee and explored the bank vaults in the basement. Dark and dusty with metal doors half a metre thick. Some dimly lit and full of dirty tools, some black and filled with obscure miscellanea. One well lit and filled with coffee table books. One almost empty, save for a single red glockenspiel in a pool of white light. I struck a G. The warm note flooded the vault and its closeness startled me, as an unexpected tap on the shoulder might, if you thought you were alone. I left.

The building was icy cold, and on the upper floors the rooms were white and concrete grey, ceilings populated by snaking pipes. Stepladders wandered round half-built installations. Paintings hung still. Wide windows let in white light and views of dancing tree-tops, vibrant yellow. I pushed my Nikes clumsily through the legs of a white overall. It had a hood.

Then I picked up a bucket of paint and an assortment of brushes and clattered down the back staircase till I found the bits of wall the last painter had missed. Long strips behind banisters and wide stretches of sloped ceiling. The paint smelt wonderful. And it was so white. The wall was the colour of discoloured teeth. I took pleasure in the bleaching process. You can't leave brush strokes, but you've got to blend the new white with the old white so it doesn't show. Not easy. But it's an art. A work of art. I liked the rhythm. The repetition. The sense of completion. The mindlessness. The cleansing. The catharsis. I painted until my arms ached, until my necked seized from gazing at the sloping ceiling, 'til my head span from the fumes and from the vertigo of being on the staircase but not looking at my feet.

When I'd finished the flight of stairs my hands and shoes and face and watch were flecked with tiny white dots. Like stars. And bright silver sparks flew around my peripheral vision. Like stars.

The vast and empty rooms grew dark save for the faint orange glow of street lights where once shone the golden leaves. I scrubbed my hands in icy water and peeled myself out of the overalls and wandered round dark corridors looking for someone to say goodbye to.

Then I left. Wearied from my strange, quiet work experience.
Art is hard, they say.