I'm very excited for these next few chapters (and nervous!) so I hope you're enjoying it so far! :) I really do appreciate everyone sticking with this slower than slow burn out with me! You're all lovely and wonderful.
It was actually called the Duplin County Modern Art Gallery but the gold plated sign had been scratched out by the blunt end of a knife. Above it in black and silver splatters its new title was adorned: The Museum of Art and Splendor.
The once pristine building was covered in dirt and overgrown grass making it feel like they'd stumbled upon some tucked away treasure. Inside, however, it was clear that the group of artists had taken a lot of care to keep it clean. The walls were tiled with white slabs of marble interspersed by stretches of grey concrete. Black birch wood lined the floor. It looked incredibly untouched, as if the world outside of this gallery was exactly as it had always been.
The centerpiece of the main lobby was a large glass blown chandelier that sent splashes of color sparkling across the room as the sun refracted through the high windows. Carol wondered how in the world they kept it so clean considering there was only a light film of dust over it.
"How'd you guys get here?" Carol asked of Louise, one of their gracious hosts, as she walked with her and Michonne around the gallery. There were four expansive display rooms filled with canvases, sculptures and photography. A second floor was redesigned as sleeping quarters, bed rolls and mattresses spread out for their group to lay on. The gallery was lucky enough to have a generator which allowed them to hook up hotplates and create a makeshift kitchenette.
"We were on a retreat with our art professor. It was just supposed to be for a week. They had lectures and technique classes scheduled for us here at the gallery. At the end of the week they were going to display our art but the world ended before the week had," she chuckled softly, pushing the black framed glasses further up her nose with her index finger.
"Most of us left, including our art professor and the gallery curator. Those of us that stayed just tried to make a living here," she continued.
"I'm just surprised you've managed to hold onto this place since the beginning," Michonne commented, tearing her eyes away from an imitation Pollock.
Louise nodded, "We've been incredibly lucky. But, most people don't come into an art gallery looking for supplies. The only weapons we have are heavy busts of long dead faces."
"Occasionally we will get the stragglers, like you, who just need a bit of rest," A young man interjected. He was tall and lean, a tone of muscle hinted in the dark skin that peaked out from beneath his flannel button up. "Isiah," he held out a hand to Carol who shook it.
"You're not worried about stragglers like us trying to take over?" Michonne asked, sweeping over the man with a cagey eye.
His smile, as dashing at the rest of him, wasn't faltered by her distrust, "We've had good judgment so far. Be a shame for you to sully our record." He turned quickly then, pointing to a painting at the end of the room, "Did you see the Dijiou? It was the last piece the curator added."
"Dijiou?" Michonne perked up, striding purposefully towards the painting. "I had gone to a showcase of hers. She had a lot of talent, some big dealers were looking at her stuff."
"Were you involved in the art world?" Louise asked from behind her.
"I was a curator myself, before my son was born. And after that I mostly did private consulting for buyers and dealers," her fingers brushed against the canvas, a smile fading from her eyes.
"I didn't know that," Carol said, resting a hand on Michonne's shoulder. The small group moved on to the next room, Louise and Isiah continuing their tour.
Daryl came to stand at the Dijiou painting, puzzled at its nonsensicalness. Judith could scribble something just like it, but he was sure they wouldn't be framing that to hang up on their shiny white walls.
"Neat, isn't it?" Daryl turned to see another of the art group, this one named Adam. He was short and stocky, with brown hair that stuck up in every direction, like it had been cut with a blunt blade. Daryl scoffed, turning back to the painting, "Why the hell would you stay in a damn gallery?"
"I like to look at beautiful things," he said matter-of-factly. The corners of Adam's lips were upturned so he always had a ridiculous happy-go-lucky look on his face.
"Beauty isn't valuable," Daryl replied sternly. "Weapons, food, shelter. That's the kind of stuff ya'll need. Surrounding yourself with all this crap…it's not worth it."
Adam shrugged, "Yet I see you've surrounded yourself with some pretty things." Daryl followed the man's gaze as he looked over to Carol and Michonne who were walking around a twisted piece of iron behind a rope.
Physical beauty wasn't something Daryl had really concerned himself with. People were animals and bodies were just what they were—bodies. There wasn't anything special about a size 2 waist or a particularly long set of legs. He could appreciate that sort of thing but he never cared for how women looked. He liked how they felt. Most of them didn't feel right at all though and so he shirked away from most of the bar honeys (as Merle insisted on calling them) that hung around his friends and brother.
He thought all the women he had met since the turn were beautiful, Carol among them with her delicate face and slender figure. It had tripped him that morning to see her lean torso, the strong muscles beneath the soft skin that outlined her belly and arms. He hated looking in her eyes sometimes because the blue was so bright and bewildering.
More so he liked the way she felt; like calmness and certainty. He didn't doubt himself when he was around her, and his natural hostility and need for compression eased away over time. She felt like freedom.
"They ain't no damn objects," he warned, huffing as he walked off.
"Where are you from, Carol?" Isiah asked as she lingered at a photograph of a woman whose face was half covered by a shadow creating sharp contours in her bone structure.
"We've been traveling from Atlanta," she began but Isiah shook his head.
"No, I don't mean your apocalyptic journey. Before that…tell me about the woman who is so fascinated by this photograph."
"I don't know much about her anymore," she said, her voice constricted as she leaned against the wall becoming level with the photograph.
Isiah studied her, "Let me guess then. You're smart and caring, something that would make a great teacher. I'm sensing high school. English or History. Never married, but your apartment was art deco with lots of coffee table books. You had a glass of wine with dinner every night and listened to Coltrane on vinyl while you danced around barefoot. The downstairs neighbors hated that."
A bewildered grin crept across her face and she shook her head.
"I get any of that right?" he laughed.
"Not even close."
That dashing grin appeared again as he placed his hand on the wall just above her head. She evaded his pose as he leaned closer, side-stepping and then walking around him. He sighed with a soft chuckle before shouting out to her, "Just give me some time, Carol. I'll have you figured out!"
"Doubt it," she muttered to herself, glad he couldn't see her vigorous eye roll.
Isiah caught up to Carol as she rejoined Michonne. He led them past the archives and they came to the last room, a small plaque above the doorway naming it the Mabel Ann Room. Isiah opened the door, "This is where we keep new art."
Inside were paintings of monsters and death. Half eaten, slashed up faces and walkers crawling in every which way. The loss of souls were depicted as people being ripped apart.
"It's how we deal with it. A true artists calling never withers," Isiah sighed. She felt queasy, the childish faces of some of the drawn walkers overwhelming her. Michonne's face had set to stone and she turned her back on the room and walked out.
"I'm sorry," Isiah called after her, "I didn't mean to upset you both. I just thought with your appreciation of the craft you'd like to see that we're still continuing it."
Carol held him back, letting Michonne get the space she needed. "Maybe because you haven't traveled more than a few miles for supplies you don't understand. This world is cruel. It's not the kind of place you want to preserve."
Isiah kept his apology at bay and Carol offered him a small smile to soften his bruised ego. She didn't want to upset their hosts, especially when a hot soup and padded bedding were waiting for her achy bones. She let him lead her back to the lobby.
Daryl was staring at a Polke painting when she found him. Bumping his shoulder with her own she stood next to him.
"You okay?" she asked softly noticing his disgruntled look as his eyes shifted across the painting and his lips curled.
He shrugged, looking at her, "I'm just not used to places like this. People like them."
"They're not so bad. Snobby, but I think their bark is worse than their bite," she smiled at him but Daryl hadn't noticed. He was back to contemplating the lines and blips of color.
"I don't see what you see when I look at this shit. I don't see anything beautiful, it looks like some drunk just made a bunch of random shapes and shit," he threw his hands up, defeated.
"That's probably a pretty accurate description for most of these," Carol turned to stand in between him and the painting, holding onto his arm and forcing him to look at her, "But, Daryl, that doesn't mean anything about you if you don't get something out of these. Sure, Michonne and I like this stuff but even I don't understand half of it. It's just about finding certain ones that make you feel something. Sometimes it's happiness. Contentment. Sometimes it makes me think of things I'd rather not. It's just nice to feel something other than the push to survive."
"But I want to understand it…for you," he looked away, studying the painting one last time.
She let her arms fall to her side, "You already know me. Said so yourself." She gave him a genuine smile but he looked so earnest that she suggested finding a piece and talking it out. Her eyes glanced around the room, looking for a painting she thought he'd might be interested in.
"Nah," he said, brushing his fingers absently against a tuft of hair that stuck out near her temple, "You do what you have to do. I'll be upstairs, checking in on the others." He trailed down her arm and their fingers lingered together before he left and went up the marbled staircase at the end of the lobby.