Doric Portico

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 Odd things, art galleries. I mean, essentially, they are just one or more large rooms where artworks can be displayed for people to view them, desire them, cogitate upon them, talk inane drivel about them and sometimes even buy them. Galleries seem to develop, despite the wishes of their proprietors, a personality or character. Some are known for this that or the other style or movement. Some are filled with the talentless outpourings of the drug-deranged. Some are pleasant, middle of the road, middle taste monuments to the bland and the beige. Some are expensive, few are cheap. Some are expositions of the owner's vanity and some the expression of a deeply held love of art. Shadow Street Gallery seemed, for some odd reason, to be none of these.


In a jokey nod to its address, it had become known as the Gallery of Shadows and stood at the edge of the main centre of town. It was an imposing structure, all vast doric portico and columns. Its main entrance an enormously tall dull black door that seemed to leer at the visitor. Its reputation became infamous; a place where artists went to find inspiration, but few emerged unscathed. Jacob, was struggling. He couldn’t seem to find his groove and just paint. He desperately wanted to, of course, but just couldn't seem to get going. Everything he started was either a disaster to be scribbled over or disaster to be permanently parked behind the sofa. He decided to try for inspiration and being the sort of person he was, he couldn’t resist the allure of the gallery's dark promise.


And dark promise it was. As he stepped through the vast, creaking door, a chill slithered down his spine, and the air seemed to thicken with an unseen something or other - Jacob’s mind, seldom focused on the job in hand, wondered if what he felt was malevolence or menace or some other worrying word beginning with ‘m’. The walls were adorned with masterpieces, truly remarkable, unsettling pieces of work. They all somehow seemed to pulse with a life of their own. Eyes, hidden within the swirls of colour within the works, followed him as he wandered deeper into the space. It was altogether a bit, well, different, exciting. Inspirational.


An unsettling hush hung in the air, broken only by the echo of his footsteps on the cold, marble floor. There seemed to be nobody else in the whole gallery. Jacob's eyes fixated on a painting that depicted a gnarled forest, each tree a grotesque caricature of despair. The longer he stared, the more the branches seemed to reach out, casting shadows that danced on the edges of his mind. He, oh so desperately, felt a burning desire to be in that forest and at the same time to be anywhere but near the forest. ‘Curious,’ he thought.


The gallery's owner, lurking in that vulture like way that gallery owners do, lurched from the shadows. He was a gaunt figure in a smarmy suit. He was rubbing his hands together like a banker with withdrawal symptoms. His voice was low and had an odd timbre that sent shivers through Jacob's core.


"Welcome,” he said.  They conversed on trivia for a while, the owner working out whether Jacob had any money, before disappointedly realising that he was just an artist, and a penniless one at that. 


“So, artist,” he said, his voice now fluting in avuncular tones, “your creations are but pale echoes of the darkness within your soul.” 


Jacob looked at him sideways. ’Nut job,’ he thought to himself.


The owner led Jacob to a secluded room, its walls adorned with an unsettling mural that seemed to writhe with life. The room exuded an otherworldly energy that clawed at his senses. With a gesture, the owner unveiled an ancient easel and whispered,

"Paint your masterpiece here artist, and let the shadows guide your hand."


Everything Jacob needed was right there, and so, although he hesitated, it was only for a moment, The compulsion to paint was irresistible. He touched the brush and his imagination flew, the paint took on a life of its own, weaving a dream, his dream, on the canvas. The paints whispered their secrets as they were laid upon the canvas and Jacob surrendered to their seductive embrace.


Hours passed, and when Jacob stepped back to admire his creation, he recoiled in horror. The painting mirrored his deepest fears, a grotesque reflection of his soul laid bare. The gallery owner grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellowing teeth.


"Your masterpiece is complete, and now, the Shadows claim you."


“Oh, right,” said Jacob, alarmed.


As the shadows enveloped Jacob, merging his being into the canvas, his screams joined the haunting whispers of all of the other long forgotten artists, trapped in the eternal twilight of the Gallery of Shadows. The vast, black door within the impressive doric-fronted gallery creaked shut.

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