I Am The Local Atheist (2 page)

My attention
turned to a number of paintings that hung close by, each exhibiting
random collections of shapes that left trails of black dust behind
them. I wondered what the artist had been thinking. Random shapes?
Black dust? The painting said nothing; perhaps abstract
expressionism had betrayed the artist this time around and shown
what they lacked instead of what they were trying to bring forth
from deep within. A larger painting was nothing more than colours
smudged into each other – and not even colours that stood out or
attracted the viewer towards it. How it ended up on a wall in a
gallery was anybody’s guess.

The paintings
were boring. The rest seemed to meander in defining the artists’
abilities rather than invoking a sense of the paintings’ subjects.
I did not care for these works. Even the angels frolicking in their
wispery garden couldn’t let go of their own self-righteousness to
portray anything beyond human grasp, anything worth striving for,
anything worth believing in: serenity, peace, happiness; they did
none of this, merely danced and held each other’s hands in the
light of watercolour desperate to show something but failing to
portray anything. I hated this town!

I moved along
the walls among the rest of what the gallery had to show for
itself, trying not to edge too close to the special ribbon that
marked off the area where the new artist’s exhibition was to be
unveiled. I ended up in a corner, peering down at a collection of
small amateurish-looking paintings that seemed to be gathered in
their very own space – why I don’t know, I can’t even remember the
stupid things; perhaps they were trying to absorb the conversations
that drifted by, a means of becoming something that they simply
weren’t. I became the corner too.

“
Very impressive detail.”

“
I like the subtlety of light that exemplifies the structure of
the building.”

“
Yeah, I was actually talking about the snacks on the table
here. You know I didn’t come for the art, right…?”

“
It is true though, he was avoiding the meeting. I tried to
convince him to change the time but he’s so stubborn. I’m glad
though, it meant he got to spend time with his son some more, and
I’m cool with that…”

“
There were some paintings I saw in New York once – did I tell
you that I went to New York…?”

“
Art today seems so void of inspiration, true divine
inspiration. For me, it’s just one big nod towards the loss of
piety in the world.”

“
In other words, the world is going to the dogs?”

“
Yeah, and Art along with it. Atheists can pretend to be good
all they like, show virtue and respect, but at the end of the day,
good will towards fellow human beings won’t guarantee them an
escape from the afterlife.”

I looked for a
way to move myself away from the nearby voices, but couldn’t get
out of the human trap of surrounding bodies that I had cornered
myself in.

“
Pessimists and free-will advocates will always try to tell you
that ‘good’ and ‘bad’ are merely human judgements and nothing more,
yet our redemption through the saving power of Jesus is proof that
‘good’ and ‘bad’ are real concepts that exist as part of God’s
great plan.”

“
Bad day at work, Jim?”

“
Huh. Just sick of atheists trying to pretend that good will
represents some kind of be-all and end-all of behaviour. I respect
them for having that moral code, but not trying to lord it over the
rest of us as a defining good.”

“
Are you implying that atheists are inherently bad?”

“
Well, if they have chosen to ignore the call of Christ, and
allow their souls to perish in hell, then yes, that is bad. Would
you dare let your son grow up without Jesus in his life?” There was
a round of “No”s from the rest of the group – the women clasped
themselves in astonishment, as though the unthinkable had been
spoken. One of them seemed to get up enough courage to say “No.
Then I think that would be bad of me, and unfair to not allow him
that opportunity of knowing Jesus – it would be bad to deny any of
my children that opportunity.”

That would
mean that my mother and father had been nothing but good, as they
had insisted that I be at church every Sunday morning getting to
know Jesus. I wondered though what that made me. Had I deserted
Jesus, or had Jesus deserted me? I wanted to believe that it was
the latter, but knew deep inside that it wasn’t. Knowledge of this
made me feel terrible, so guilt-ridden and ashamed. I hated Jesus
for making me feel this way.

The woman, on
the other hand, was obviously feeling quite righteous as she let go
of her husband’s arm and began taking a stand for her own opinions.
“It would be nothing short of immoral, degenerate!”

“
That is right. Atheists are handicapped from living a full
life because they have no support from a higher being, no one who
will love them unconditionally. Putting faith in Jesus allows us to
live the greatest human experience without fear of falling. And
without Jesus to lean on, atheists fall. A long way. They fall into
the never-ending spiral of moral decay, and it is only Jesus that
can ever save them from that.”

“
Why, no wonder there are so many young people on drugs, so
many homeless…”

I stopped
listening. Some conversations can’t help but reduce themselves to
displays of ignorance. Not knowing Jesus had nothing to do with why
people did drugs, or why there were homeless in the streets (I had
no idea what she was talking about in the latter case – she must
have been thinking about the homeless in other cities, other
countries…); but knowing Jesus had certainly given me focus and
something to believe in outside of myself.

But where was
that now? I felt like I had nothing. Handicapped and unable to
bring myself out of this hole that had been dug for me.

A streak of
wavy light brown hair caught my attention: it belonged to a girl
standing amongst some fellow companions. And all of a sudden my
heart raced. The head began turning; I knew who it was: Lisa. She
saw me; we both turned away.

When I had
stood in the same place for long enough staring at the same
painting without any recognition of its artistry, I glanced back to
where she had been standing. Her head slowly turned revealing a
glass of wine at her lips – I had tried hiding myself by stepping
backwards and putting some crowd members between us; here she was
using the old ‘eyes behind the glass and mouth full’ trick. But I
saw her frowning before I turned away again. Perhaps it was pity. I
could only hope.

A glass being
tapped with a utensil was clanging out over the crowd. The talk
eventually subsided and the host began talking from in front of the
ribbon.

“
Well, ladies and gentlemen, the gallery this fine autumn
evening has the wonderful pleasure of introducing two new people to
the town, though one has resided here for a couple of years now,
the other is only here for a short visit, though we have asked him
to introduce himself and tell us a little about his travels before
we go on to introduce a wonderful new artist that will make a great
contribution to the already vibrant art scene in this city. Without
further adieu, please welcome from Christchurch, Mr. Francis
Goodall.”

The man that
stepped up to the ribbon amidst the tentative clapping looked like
he hadn’t smiled since childhood: if he had, it was probably a sure
sign that God had sent him a vision of the coming apocalypse. His
tone of voice did nothing to relieve the situation.

…
and then there was
what
he was saying.

“
I believe that every artist is an artist unto themselves; I
believe that art is its own art and speaks for itself; however,
there is a standard that every art gallery needs to be aware of and
absolutely must meet if the paintings that hang on its walls are to
receive a proper viewing: this gallery fails in almost every
respect!” A shocked but muffled response grumbled from the
audience, but attention remained focussed. “Red Walls! Frames that
are mere inches away from touching each other! Paintings sitting
idly on the floor as though we had just walked into an attic.
People – and I don’t mean just the curators of this museum, for I
believe that art is a representation of a society, therefore making
this gallery the responsibility of all those involved including the
buyers and the sellers – you must all set your sights on achieving
the highest goals possible in creating a gallery for yourselves to
view and display the work of local artists. It is not enough for an
artist just to have their work on display, but must also be allowed
the privilege to have it displayed in the correct environment,
which for you Invercargill, means stripping these walls of their
dominating reds and repainting it a neutral white; separating and
giving breathing room to every painting unless it belongs to a
series of paintings; clearing the floor space to reduce the chances
of tripping over paintings. Only then will the works that are hung
be allowed to speak for themselves and not be diminished by the
warmth of the walls behind them, nor be enhanced by the wall; nor
be trying to compete with the paintings next to them, or beneath
them, for attention. Paintings must stand on their own, in their
own space, complete and answerable only to themselves. To make
excuses for a painting is to show a failure in the artist, to show
failure in those who believe in art. People wake up!” Gasps escaped
from a few mouths but by this time everyone was too engrossed in
what he was saying to make any complaints. “You are not isolated in
this town – though you might like to think so. This is a very
vibrant community with lots of talent, and though I may have some
empathy towards what you are trying to achieve and the restrictions
that you are faced with, you will not, however, receive any of my
sympathy. The entire world outside is feeding off each other’s
energies: you cannot afford to be a sitting duck paddling about in
your own stagnate pond.

“
I would love to stay and talk further about ideas that any of
you wish to go over with me but unfortunately I have an appointment
that I must attend to. I strongly recommend the artist who is about
to unveil her work tonight, and can only hope she develops her
skills further. Support is essential, yes, as for all the artists
already hanging in this gallery, but critical appraisal must be
made welcome in order for all artists and all involved in art to
advance further in their work. Thank you, and have a good
evening.”

The man
stepped back to where he had been, took his coat from a chair,
shook hands with the secretary, and then the curator, and made his
way quietly to a side door and was gone.

I had never
heard so much silence issue from a crowd!

The host
sheepishly walked in front of the ribbon again. “Umm, I think it
might be a good idea if we all just take a few minutes to digest
Mr. Goodall’s comments before moving on. Don’t forget to help
yourselves to some wine and snacks. There’s plenty of wine to go
around, so just help your selves.” He gave a pleasant smile and a
nod to the audience before retreating to the company of his
work-team. Everyone else gathered into their own groups and tried
desperately to digest what had just been thrown at them, but it
seemed like most people couldn’t find anything to say, like the
whole speech had dug too deep into their psyches; far too deep for
them to make any intelligible sense of.

I thought I
was as far into the corner as you could stand, just happily stewing
in the upset and agitated air that surrounded me, but I felt a
finger tap me on the shoulder. It could only be one person… and she
was no longer standing where I had last seen her.

I turned –
ever so slightly – remembering everything as they came into my
vision: the shoulders, square with a woollen jersey casually
hanging from them and falling down to a large waist; feet firmly
planted on the ground in loose fitting sneakers – the shoelaces
hidden under the ends of casual slacks.

“
At least you’re not staring at my breasts.”

I looked up
from the floor. Her eyes stabbed me, like knives in my chest, but I
held her gaze long enough to let the pain fade away. “Yeah.” Man, I
wanted so badly to say something witty, but all I managed was a
weak “yeah”.

“
It’s been ages, David.”

“
Yeah, it really seems like that.”

“
So how have you been?” The question seemed genuine.

“
Okay, I guess. All things considered. Lisa.”

“
Yeah.” She fidgeted with her wine glass. “You know, you could
have made an apology. It probably would have gone a long way to
making things better. I might not have left even.”

Yeah sure.
“They tried to make me.
But I wasn’t sorry.”

“
Right.” She seemed unconvinced. “Well, if it’s any
consolation, the church just wasn’t the same without
you.”

“
Right.” Churches rarely change, even with the loss of certain
members. One person leaves, someone takes their place. It’s how the
guys pulling the strings work it. And anyway, I had been nothing up
until my excommunication. They would vocally lament the loss of
this member, make a big song and dance about it, and then three
weeks down the track they would preach about how much stronger the
congregation had become. Losing me had been nothing, if not a
blessing – it was the image that I had tainted that had them all in
such a fury.