The Exhibition

What if they weren’t cops? What other jobs could they do?

Still don’t own the originals, still arguing over my muses. Written for au100 challenge on LiveJournal.

Starsky undid his jacket, uncomfortable and bored after wandering through the gallery for the past hour. Working as a security guard meant patrolling the rooms to make sure that no one was doing something they shouldn’t be, standing around to give people the impression that the gallery exhibits might actually be important enough to deserve precautions, and generally going out of his mind. The gallery was closed for the lunch period, but he still had another thirty-five minutes to go before his shift was over.

He snorted, shaking his head. Five years ago, he’d never have imagined that this would be where he’d end up. He planned to follow his father’s example, and become a cop — but then the draft board had called.

He rubbed his left shoulder absently. The shot-wound from Viet Nam didn’t interfere with his duties as a guard too badly, but it meant that he couldn’t pass the physical examination to become a police officer.

Scowling at the thought, he turned to resume his patrol — and stopped, finding a stranger watching him.

The man was blond, with fashionable, high-quality clothes and a bearing just short of arrogance. He didn’t seem put off by the harsh glare that Starsky gave him, walking over to him.

“What do you think of the paintings?”

Starsky folded his arms, ignoring the twinge in his shoulder. “Why are you asking me? There’s been enough people giving their opinions of them this morning.”

The man waved a hand dismissively. “They were just using the paintings as an excuse to show off how intelligent they are. I’m interested in what someone thinks of the actual paintings.”

“So why ask me? I’m just a common Joe,” Starsky pointed out, although he was intrigued by the man’s statement.

“I want to know what a normal person would think of them.”

“Don’t you count as one?” asked Starsky, amused. The man gave him a bitter smile.

“Not really.” He gestured at the painting on the wall opposite them. “Take this one. It’s by Rosson. Do you like it?”

Starsky gave him a hard look, but turned to the picture and studied it.

A woman sat at a mirror, brushing her hair. In the reflection, a man was watching her with a cold smile.

“Not really,” he echoed the man’s words.

“Why not?”

“That — there.” Starsky waved at the man’s reflection. “He looks like he’s watching some high-priced hooker.”

The man snorted with laughter, not expecting Starsky’s comment. “I think he’s meant to be a threat to her.”

“Exactly.”

The man turned from the picture to look at Starsky again. “So you don’t think much of disturbing themes, then.”

“It depends on why they’re disturbing, I guess,” Starsky shrugged, feeling that he’d made a mistake in being so honest.

“Hmm.” The man looked around. “I don’t think you’ll like the rest of the work in this area either, then.” He waved at the pictures which were nearest them. Starsky looked around, and nodded his agreement.

The man looked thoughtful. “Have you looked at Doval’s work?” Seeing the blank look on Starsky’s face, the man turned to another area of the gallery, waving for Starsky to join him.

Starsky paused, but it was the lunch break, after all. Most people were getting something to eat, instead of walking through an art exhibition. He followed the man.

The man stopped in front of a cityscape. “What do you think of this?”

Starsky looked at the picture — then looked more closely, trying to work out what it was he didn’t like about it. “Uhm.”

“Not impressed?” The man sounded amused.

Starsky waved his arms. “It’s — nice, I guess. But there’s nothing in it.” He made a frustrated noise. “I mean, there’s no — it’s a real good picture of a city, but you don’t know what the guy feels about it, it’s just –”

“There’s no emotional content. The technical skills are there, but they aren’t being used to show anything important.”

Starsky looked at the man, surprised that he understood what he’d been trying to say. “Exactly.”

The man looked thoughtful. “So you want emotional content…” He walked to the next exhibit. “How about this?”

A mass of waving lines, brilliant shades of red and orange, and a just barely recognisable picture of a dark-haired woman.

“Bleah! Too much emotion. I like being able to see what the picture’s of, you know.”

The man’s smile turned sour. “Hard to satisfy, aren’t you?” He looked back at the painting, and grimaced. “Not that I’m disagreeing.”

They walked slowly around the gallery, Starsky telling the man what he thought of each painting and the man putting it into fancy words, occasionally mentioning his own opinions on the pictures. He seemed to know a lot about art, but he was genuinely interested in Starsky’s thoughts on the displays. It was the first time Starsky had had so much attention payed to him, and he found himself enjoying the conversation.

They finally reached the exhibit just before their starting point. Instead of a single large painting, this artist — K Hutchinson — had contributed a group of smaller pictures — landscapes, with the occasional figure. Most of the flaws Starsky had complained about in other pictures were missing, but the colours in all of the pictures were faded as though they’d been left in strong light for too long.

“Well?”

“They’re colourless. Like your eyes.” Starsky turned bright red, clapping a hand over his mouth as the man stared at him in astonishment. ‘Where did that come from?’ he asked himself.

“Any other complaints about the pictures?” the man asked, a little weakly. Starsky looked at the pictures intently, willing the colour in his cheeks to fade.

“No. Actually, I think they’re the best in the show. Just –”

“Too colourless.” The man looked at him. “Any other complaints about me?”

As the fading colour resurged in Starsky’s cheeks, the man turned and walked away. Starsky wondered what he’d meant by that last question, only realising when he was about to call out and ask him that they’d never even told each other their names.

Shaking his head, he checked the time automatically, relieved to find that his shift was over. He left the gallery thankfully.

Bastrin, the owner of the gallery, was waiting for him. “What did you say to Mr. Hutchinson?” he asked.

“Mister who?” Starsky asked, a sudden apprehension gripping his stomach. ‘Oh, no, don’t tell me that –‘

“The blond man you’ve been talking to for the past half-an-hour.” Bastrin looked at him closely. “Don’t tell me you didn’t know who he is?”

Starsky winced, his last words to the man echoing in his head. “Well, you see –” he started.

“You’d better not have upset him. He’s a very influential person. The number of hangers-on who show up when they know he’ll be around — it’s incredible! Of course, that’s why he prefers not to be made a fuss of, but still. If you’ve said anything to make him disapprove of this gallery, I will certainly complain to the firm you work for.”

Starsky winced again.

Back at his studio, Kenneth thought back to his conversation with the security guard. ‘Too colourless. Like your eyes.’

He looked at his latest picture, a beach scape with a single figure walking down the sand away from the viewer. It was still damp from the immersion which leached away the extra colour.

It had never occurred to him to ask himself why he drained the colours from his pictures. The effect was what he wanted, and that had been the only thing he was concerned with — but now…

Before he could change his mind, he prepared more colours and another brush, and painted in another figure beside the single walker. The new one was almost unbearably vivid. He remembered the impression of contained energy which had drawn him to talk to the security guard in the first place.

There was an unexpected side-effect from the addition of the new figure. Somehow, the pigment seemed to leak into the areas near it, so that the painting was undeniably focussed on this person.

Hutchinson considered the picture thoughtfully, and left it to dry.

“Hey, Starsky! You’ve got a package!”

“What?” Starsky stared at his boss, who was hefting a parcel at him. “Who’d send me something here?”

Collins shrugged. “Well, it must be for you.” He held it out. The label on it said, TO THE SECURITY GUARD AT THE NEW TALENT EXHIBITION, BASTRIN’S GALLERY, 18TH JUNE, MORNING SHIFT.

Starsky took the parcel and undid it slowly, wondering what it could be. He found himself holding a framed picture of a beach. Most of the painting was almost colourless, but a man with dark hair walking along the beach was brilliantly coloured. The area of the painting near him was bolder as well, fading into the pale shades of the rest of the picture — including his companion, a blond man whose face was turned to the brunet.

Starsky felt a smile pull at his lips. Small as the figures were, they were instantly recognisable. The blond was faded with the rest of the picture — apart from his eyes.

They were blue.

He turned the picture over. On the back of the frame, there was an address – 1027 1/2 Ocean, Venice Place – and a single question.

Come walk with me?