I love my job. I work at the Huntington Museum of Art in Huntington, West Virginia. It is a quaint museum and conservatory that is tucked away at the top of a large hill up a winding road. My job as a curator is one that I genuinely look forward to doing each day. This morning, it was quite slow, so I decided to take a stroll around the halls, put myself in the place of a museum visitor. I walked down to the end of our main hallway; it has a door leading to our courtyard on the right and to my left, a walkway leading to the rest of the museum. The painting that was in front of me - Die Baba by Marlene Dumas - is what has led me down the hallway and finally greeted me before I turned into the next section.
But, as I examined Dumas’ work, I noticed something else on the wall underneath the painting. It was a child’s drawing, taped to the wall. The crayon-colored piece of printer paper was nearly obstructed by the leaves on the Birds of Paradise plant that lives in the corner, its pot being a work of art as well. Finding papers taped to the wall was not an uncommon occurrence here. We have a children’s room at the museum, and sometimes, blossoming little artists decide that they want to add their own masterpieces to our collection. As I leaned down to remove the drawing and put it on the display wall we keep in the children’s room, I heard an objection from behind me.
“Why are you taking down my drawing?” I turned my head to see a little boy, no more than six standing behind me. I turned the rest of my body and knelt down to better explain to him why I had to move the drawing. The boy was an average size, with a sandy blonde bowl cut. He looked like an average kid. “Well buddy,” I started, “we have a special room here for our visitors to put up their own pictures, is that okay if we put your paper there?” A silent head nod told me he understood. “Do you want to come with me to pick a spot to put your drawing?” I questioned, which was answered with another nod. I plucked the paper off the wall gently so the tape wouldn’t cause any of the wall’s paint to chip. As I handed the paper to the boy, I asked him, “So, what is your drawing supposed to be?”
“That’s my mom after my dad cut her head off.”
“Wha-what?” I pulled the paper back, and examined it for the first time. It was a far too realistic drawing of a naked woman with a severed head. A man is standing over her with a bloodied serrated knife. The blood in the image was represented by red crayon scribbles. It was grotesque, it was horrifying, and it was a masterpiece. When I finally understood what I was looking at, I stumbled back from the child. I felt overrun with confusion and fear. In my stupor, I slipped, which caused me to tip backwards and my head smacked onto that ceramic plant pot in the corner.
When I opened my eyes, I had no idea how long I had been unconscious. I was barely able to keep them open, the bright lights of the museum was causing me pain to widen them any more than a sliver. I looked to my right side and I saw the kid again, furiously scribbling away at a new drawing. I was so confused, why didn’t he get me help? I stayed strewn out on the floor, unable to move from pain, trying to piece together what happened. My memory of what occurred before I was knocked out had become hazy. It was then that I heard footsteps approaching. “Oh my god”, a feminine voice cried softly, the footsteps became rapid. “Michael! Get away from there!” a male voice hissed as the footsteps stopped now a few feet away. I peered out from behind my still barely opened eyelids. I saw the man and woman unclasp their intertwined hands. The boy had gone from my side and calmly walked towards the couple. The man then picked him up and the woman hugged them both with a distraught look upon her face. As I saw the family embrace in front of me, I remembered what had led to my bout of unconsciousness. And then I realized, those people were the mother and father pictured in the boy’s drawing. The family turned and began to walk away from me.
I tried to say something before they were too far to hear, I just wanted to call attention to the now crumpled drawing which was still grasped in my fist. Yet, at that moment, I felt unable to speak. Either from the head injury I just suffered or from being in shock or from the fear of the situation I just experienced.
The family walked hurriedly towards the front exit. The boy stared back at me with a blank expression on his face. His eyes were dull, his mouth unmoving. There was nothing there.
I passed out again.
By the time the ambulance arrived, the family was already gone. The museum’s front desk attendant told me that the family had alerted her to what happened before they fled, though they had thought I had overdosed on something. I did not end up having to be taken into the hospital, but the paramedics told me I needed to get a ride home from work as I had a concussion. My supervisor insisted that I go home early, so I called my wife to come pick me up. As I waited, I insisted that I clean up the mess that the broken pot had made, at least to get the ceramic shards and potting soil off the floor.
As I walked back to the corner of the museum, broom and dustpan in hand, I noticed that the drawing the boy was working on next to my unconscious body was still there. The paper was still on the floor, left behind as his parents called him away, making him too distracted to grab it and take it with him. As I picked it up to examine it, I saw there was nothing but a scribbled red mess, covering the page nearly to the edges. And I think that maybe, he left the drawing behind on purpose after all.