The Exhibit

The gallery lights burned on even as the record crowd still filtered in through those hallowed doors.

The gallery lights burned on even as the record crowd still filtered in through those hallowed doors. Men chuckled and clinked glasses as they wandered the exhibit floor. A lady with her hair up let go her child’s hand the child ran off and into an old man who promptly yelled at him. The the main piece consisted of a large bowl of silver cast with wet ice perched between two stone hands. As the night drew on the ice would melt and slip from grasp into the bowl. A famous journalist took note of this as he grabbed a fresh drink. He stretched tall and spoke, ‘Fellow patrons ought we not stop this ice from its demise? Such a wondrous piece should be preserved for future generations.’ A few members of the crowd hesitated, then affirmed his words. Others hid their faces, afraid to speak. And others still denounced this notion, said it was what the artist intended. ‘The artist,’ said the newsman, ‘is not present at the moment.’ He turned and asked for the man to step forth. ‘As such it is not his decision to make. It will be ruined entirely if we do not act now.’ With that the writer stepped toward the bowl and began to hoist it in his arms. A woman shrieked and began to slap him with her billfold. ‘It’s mine you clod, I paid good money for it! Unhand it at once!’ A priest in attendance moved them and laid hands on the reporter. ‘In the name of all that’s holy commerce has decided the outcome, good sir let go.’ And the local judge stepped up and laid hands on the man and said, ‘I beg you stop until the rights of the art can be established by the court.’ The journalist struggled to free himself from their arrest, stumbled, cursed, and sprang forth. But he tripped over the child and the work went down. The ice cracked with the hands and the bowl made a horrible clamor before it settled.

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