[OPEN @Humboldt] Modern Arts

Humboldt stood in front of a painting that was completely black save for seven white dots. He was wearing a black tuque and hoodie with green and red lettering on it. The sound of approaching footsteps reached his ears. He glanced sideways and saw a man who looked at least twenty years older than him shuffle around the corner. From the way he looked around, he wasn't used to museums.

Humboldt spoke up to the man. "This is the Monochrome Hall. A friend of mine painted this one. She left it untitled." He paused. "Do you think it's better that way?"

A faint smile crossed the young inkling's lips. "Most of them, yes. There aren't a whole lot, but they all like either art or music."

The smile faded slowly as he looked into the man's eye. An discomforting quiet settled over the hall, but Humboldt didn't seem to take notice. His gaze was intense and piercing. It seemed as though he was trying to form an invisible bridge between them through sheer force of will.

Humboldt blinked first. He turned his head to the painting briefly, then back to the man. The look of almost zenlike scrutiny was gone, a warm smile in its place. "I'm sorry, I haven't told you my name yet. I'm Humboldt. Who are you?"

Humboldt frowned as he looked down the hallway. "No, they only wanted the paintings that were..." He gesticulated, searching for the right words. "Well, when I paint, I try to capture pure feeling. Emotion, energy, the soul of the memory of the moment or whatever you want to call it. The people putting on this exhibition actually did offer to display a couple of my pieces, but they were just too, y'know..."

He put his hand to his chin and made a plaintive gesture. "See, I'm from the Emerald Coast. And there's a lot of bad stuff that's been going on there for a while. Revolution, war. Hungry people. Hurt people. Terrible things. Now, I'm not defined solely by current events. I'm more than just some pitiable refugee. I'm a person. I'm someone. I have a whole range of emotions and memories. I paint all kinds of things. Joy, apprehension, optimism, coldness and warmth, a cold night, a fresh day, grass and dirt and asphalt, and, uh, trees and sunlight and, and blue skies and big fluffy clouds..."

Relaxing his shoulders, he let out a sigh. "But all they wanted to talk about was the bad stuff. They only wanted to show off the paintings of sadness and anger, scenes of war. Suffering." He turned to face Khy directly. "I'm more than that, you know? A lot more. A whole lot more. And I don't want anyone's first impression to be a painting of some... some horrible scene. Grays and reds. I wanted my happier works to be put up. Yellows, and greens, and blues. Softness and warmth. Light."

Humboldt looked down to his shoes. "I don't think I'm ready to show such depressing things to anyone who walks in. Like, someone said that I should, to raise awareness and stuff, y'know? Raise the profile of what's going on back home." He looked back up. "But I just... I can't show it on someone else's terms. It would have to be an exhibition put on just about my works. And I'm just not quite there yet. Maybe that's selfish. I don't know. I send what money I can home. And I would only get 'paid in exposure' for this."

Humboldt paused. He seemed a little less distant, a little less burdened. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to vent."

While Khy was lost in the painting, Humboldt took the opportunity to get another look at him. The eyepatch, the torn ear, the prosthetic leg. He had his suspicions, but the man's words had just confirmed them. This was a lonely and troubled veteran in desperate need of someone to talk to. Humboldt knew what could happen if he didn't do something now.

He shuffled half a step forward, bringing Khy's attention back to him. "Hey, listen, none of these works may be mine, but I still know this place pretty well. I, uh. I actually know some of the folks who have painted these," here he gestured, "and I could kind of walk you through some of them if you'd like." He put on a smile he hoped was warm enough.

Humboldt had enjoyed walking Khyran through what he thought were some of the more noteworthy works in the Swordfish Museum. It was obvious that his new acquaintance was very much out of his element, but he had listened to Humboldt's thoughts and opinions on each piece of art. He'd even paid attention when he went off on tangents. That was rare.

All too soon, they had reached the end of the impromptu tour. Khyran gave his halting but sincere thanks, which Humboldt accepted with a polite smile. He was about to say his goodbyes and walk away, but something stopped him. He knew that this man wouldn't have a chance to enjoy someone else's company for a long time. Humboldt didn't ordinarily do this, but...

"No, it's fine. I'd like that. Actually, my studio isn't far from here. If you feel like stopping by - tonight, tomorrow, a week or a month from now - my doors are always open to you. There's plenty of finished and unfinished paintings to observe if you didn't get your fill of art today, and... and scintillating conversation to be had. Any color, time, or topic you like."

God, I hope I can help him, he thought.

Humboldt smiled warmly. "I do, it's right here. What's your number?"

This could be the beginning of a beautiful friendship.