Art.

“the conscious use of skill and creative imagination

especially in the production of aesthetic objects,”

["Art." Merriam-Webster.com. Merriam-Webster, n.d. Web. 30 Aug. 2017]

It is decidedly not beautiful. That’s your first impression of it. You notice most people are standing farther away from it than you. You go and stand with them. Is it better from afar? Nope. Still ugly. Well, not ugly. Just... You can’t find the word. What’s good about it? It’s... vibrant. Yeah, that’s probably the best thing you could say about it. The person next to you must have read your expression.

“It’s... unpleasant isn’t it?”

That’s the word you were looking for.

“Yeah.”

They nod, looking back at it.

“There’s something about it though, right?”

They’re right, there is something about it.

“Uh-huh.”

They walk away, along with the rest of the tour group. You stay, transfixed there. That unnamed something keeping you there. You think back to what the guide said.

This is a piece we’ve recently acquired. It was recovered intact from a bombed apartment building. The artist’s identity, as well as the piece’s name-- are unknown.

The last remnant of a forgotten artist. It seems a fitting story for what you’re looking at. It’s not that bad, not really. Now that you’ve had time to study it. Still not good, but decidedly not bad either. It’s... interesting. How would you describe it though? Hectic. There’s a word for it. That’s not what makes it so striking though. You can feel it like a tickle at the back of your head. There’s something you’re seeing, but not processing.

You try unfocusing your vision, looking past it. It doesn’t help. You try going up close to it, looking over the wavy texture of the paint on the canvas. That doesn’t help either. You have the distinct feeling it’s not just random, not purely chaos for the sake of it. There were other pieces you saw that felt that way, but not this one. You can sense an order to it. You stand where you were originally. You stare. You sigh. You keep staring. You're almost ready to give up-- but that’s when you see it. Fire.

It’s so clear now. The colors are what threw you off, intertwining in an overwhelming mix of black and red. Now it’s obvious. There’s fire-- and smoke. Thick and choking. Now that you see it, it’s nearly pouring out over the walls of the gallery. It’s bright and flickering, and... hot. Too hot. Scalding. Now you see it-- that something you were looking for. You wish you didn’t. Faces. Making up the entire background. Huddled faces, screaming in pain.

Their skin run a gamut of nauseating shades, from pale and bloody to burnt and black. You nearly retch in disgust. You keep seeing more and more faces. Before it was just swimming colors, but now-- each moment there you see another one between the licking flames. They boil and melt, scream and cry, plead and curse-- you feel the heat against your face, as though any moment it might singe your hair. You try to look away, but you can’t-- because you see something else.

It’s sitting past the flames and the faces. You catch glimpses of its eyes gleaming between the licks of flames and pillars of smoke. Teeth. That’s what those errant spots of white are. The fangs of some perched thing sitting beyond the landscape. Watching the scene. Uncaring-- no, that's not right. Dispassionate. You can’t find it’s face unobscured in the havoc, but what first struck you as evil seems to be closer to... solemn. Not the architect to the mayhem, just a powerless observer.

Now you’re looking at the whole scene. The piece has become so vivid, you swear you can hear it. A miserable muffled wail from beyond the paint and cloth. There’s a movement to the shapes. A kind of strange, rhythmic pulsation living within the curves and lines. A heart beat. You feel like you’re watching something alive-- watching it twitch and squirm. You feel yourself drawn towards it.

You want to reach out and touch the flames. Just for a single, blissful moment. You want to live in the vivid color and lucid emotion. You want to writhe against the bright reds and the deep blacks. You want to scream and choke and cry and--

“Hey.”

You start suddenly as a hand touches your shoulder. You look back.

“I think I’m ready to head out, how about you?”

You look at the piece again. A mish-mash of random shapes and ugly colors.

“...Yeah. I’m good. Let’s go.”

...

You sit in the car, staring out the window. You watch the gray clouds as they slowly drift across the dusk sky.

“Did you find anything interesting this time?”

You shake your head, without looking back

“I’m not sure I get even most of that stuff. Do you?”

You don’t answer. You're looking deeper into the clouds. Watching them as they begin to twist and turn. You hear a low, mournful wailing in the distance. The clouds grow darker. You feel a sudden heat against your face. You see a flicker of red glowing from beyond the blackened clouds.

You smell smoke.