Off The Wall

If walls could talk, then I would finally have a voice to express what I’ve always wanted people to know. That is what I want more than anything, to share my message with the people. So the people may see what I see.

For hundreds of years I have been here. People stare at me all day long, but it is not me they see. Millions of people pass by every year. They stop, they stare, sometimes for hours. They don’t see me.

If I could talk I would say, “I’m here!” “I exist!” “I’m beautiful too!” I am beautiful too. I am constantly cleaned and often redecorated. I have been painted and papered and plastered. I am indeed a work of art. But the only art they care to see is that which hangs on me. I am only here to highlight and hold the artist’s creations. I am a gallery wall.

I watch people’s faces as they stare. Some laugh, some cry. Some argue! Some take pictures. Once a thief even stole art from me. I would have stopped him, if I had a voice. I would have helped the police identify him. I tried to tell them, but they heard nothing.

I wish I could see what they see, then I could understand their emotions and why art has so much power over them and so much more value to them than me. What can art do? It can’t even hold itself up. Can it support the ceiling, hold a building together, create a room? Can it echo the sound of choirs singing in the halls? No. It can’t.

Art decorates me, like ornaments on a Christmas tree. But if there was no tree, the ornaments would not be. The tree makes the ornaments possible. The ornaments were created for the tree. But no one cares to keep a tree that is bare. Is that the case with me? I am constantly repainted to make the art installation look good. If the art were gone, would anyone come if only to see me?

A family passing by looks to the intricately painted ceiling. A mural! If someone would paint a mural on me, I would be the art people would see. How I would like to wear a mural! Do you know anyone who would paint a mural on me? I would like for it to tell the story of my life, my time, what I have seen.

It would show people, countless people. It would show emotion pouring from their eyes. Their faces, full of expression. People. Young and old. Rich and Poor. Of every color and race and mix imaginable. People in times of peace, people in times of war. Pregnant women holding their bellies and grey-haired couples holding hands. Young lovers and those who wear faces hardened by love’s scorn. People alone, and people together. Groups of children with wide-eyed wonder, fancy dinner parties, and lonely night guards.

I see them staring at paintings of people. Can they not see that they are the inspiration for the painting to begin with? They, themselves, inspired the art that hangs in this gallery. Their daily lives. Their pain. Their sorrow. Their joy. Their tears. Their very heart and soul. I see them searching for answers in a painting, yet they are the answer.

That is the art that I see. Why do they not see that the real beauty lies in them? Perhaps what should hang on me is a mirror. A mirror, in an art gallery. Yes, that would do. Then I wouldn’t need to talk, I could show them. “Friends, the real art is you!”