Artistic expression

     Caleb turned a full circle, bewildered at the blank, white walls of the empty room. “I’m a little confused,” he said. “I thought this was your private gallery?” Clutching his portfolio, he felt suddenly ill at ease about selling any of his precious paintings to this man. Reuben Moss was a media magnate, therefore certainly able to pay, but this invitation to the elusive billionaire’s home was unsettling in itself. The gallery was rumored to house the world’s most unique art collection, yet here it was, stark as an eggshell.

 

     Reuben bowed slightly. “This is my gallery, but my collection is sensitive. This room is accessible to my staff, but the art is not for them.”

 

     Caleb shifted uncomfortably. “Art is for everyone,” he protested.

 

     “Do you believe all art is for everyone?” challenged Ruben.

 

     “I don’t think the ability to appreciate art is predetermined by socioeconomics, sir,” Caleb stated flatly, more certain that he would leave with his portfolio no lighter than when he arrived. 

 

     “This way,” Reuben beckoned, twirling a keyring around his finger as he headed to a door at the far end of the gallery. “I am curious to see if my collection changes your mind.”

 

     Caleb followed reluctantly, a sense of dread growing in his belly. 

 

     The room beyond the door was dark. Reuben gestured for Caleb to step inside, and despite the tendrils of warning issuing through his blood, Caleb complied. 

 

     “You see, Caleb, I invited you here because you have a particularly unique visual voice, and when I add an artist to my gallery, I like to pick their brains. To get a sense of their minds. That, to me, is the real art. Everything on the canvas, in the clay, in the stone, is all secondary to the vision. And that,” he said, flicking on the lights, “is what I wish to possess.”

 

     Caleb’s eyes adjusted slowly as two rows of glass cases illuminated before him. Reuben prodded him forward, and Caleb passed two sets of them before he registered what he was seeing.

 

     Each case held a preserved human brain, each with a brass plate engraved with the name of the artist from which it was harvested. He recoiled in horror and spun to flee, only to be met with a syringe plunged into his neck.

 

     “The truth of art is the mind, Caleb. That is all I wish to possess.”