Also published by Bookshelf Brief, an imprint of Bookshelf.
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You ponder unassumingly at the structure. You picture complex, beehive-like patterns embroidered along the building walls, metal plates shaped and bent forming waves and spikes protruding from the roof, or at least tall, rustic Roman columns at the doorstep. But it is unlike anything Frank Gehry has ever designed. Instead, before you stand a tall structure that takes you back to one of those Kubrick movies. A white cubical monolith. But as an art aficionado, it only stirs your curiosity, so you walk in. Another contemporary take on architecture, you assume.
An immense room with monochromatic marble walls stretching almost infinitely you can barely see the ceiling–a neat balance of white walls on one side and washed-out gray on another–welcomes you. You gawk at the sheer scale of the space around you. You ignore the cold, uninviting wind that envelops you as you step inside, as the sun lights pouring through the glass adds a touch of warmth into the room. But it bothers you that you see no flashy attributes promoting latest exhibits or visitor-oriented guides–even not a single logo displayed in sight. Your eye traces every outline in this interior–you beam at the epitome of purity and perfection surrounding you.
A large rectangular marble block sits in the dead center of the lobby. You find a pale woman perching behind a sleek screen that obstructs her petite figure. Her back standing upright and the elbows propped on the desk form a near-perfect ninety-degree angle.
“Excuse me, is it–are you open?” You find your voice.
The woman, seemingly unfazed at first, breaks into a stiff smile.
“Why, of course, sir. We’ve been waiting for you.” she then recites your name. “You have the invitation with you, yes?”
You produce the cardstock paper that came into your mailbox. A referral from an old friend for an exclusive preview before the museum is open for public, it says. You haven’t delved in the industry for so long, but being an aspiring artist constantly craving for inspiration that you are, attending exhibition launches, auctions, every art-related events almost become a staple need. If you flew all the way to Los Angeles when The Broad first opened a couple years back, you surely wouldn’t want to miss a museum opening less than a hundred miles from where you live. You had the least suspicion when you had to drive to the outskirts, up the hill, away from the suburban houses, through the winding road, until you reached nowhere. You first assumed it as an abandoned structure but The White Box, as advertised by the invitation–a piece of architectural beauty lying in the lush nature, easily drew you in. Just another hidden gem, you think.
The receptionist woman scanned the invitation. You ask if no one else is present for the viewing.
“Our museum’s exclusive nature requires limited visitors as a part of our security protocols to protect our collections.” She explains. “Our collections are rare and specially curated for your viewing convenience. I do hope you enjoy your visit.”
You wonder what sort of collections they might store inside. As valuable and historic every other museum, likely The Louvre or Smithsonian, they maintain a steady flow of visitors coming throughout the years. You shrug it off and wear the paper bracelet the woman handed to you. She motions you to the entrance camouflaged at the right side of the wall. A big, tall man scans the bracelet and lets you through the turnstile. No further scanning required. So much for the so-called security measurements.
The temperature shifts when you enter the first gallery. Cool air briefly sends a chill up your spine. You blame the infinite silence against the vast space hugging you for causing the temperature drop. Still, you suspect nothing, as the scene before you couldn’t be more familiar: perfect colorful circles encased in thin silver frames. You hover from one frame to another, scanning through the flat-coated layers of paint. You admire the precision of the flat shapes on the canvas. But you don’t bother checking the brain behind the pieces and skip to another room.
This time, the paintings come in larger scales. The colors are no longer contained in definite spaces. You notice how the paint strokes, previously solid and firm, now break apart inside the frame. The same artist must have created all these, only in separate life phases. But they are not enough to make you stay long enough, so you move.
In the next room, a frozen body before you nearly tips you over. It belongs to a half-naked plaster man standing in a proud pose, almost resembling that to David’s, although you’d say the body isn’t anywhere close to the chiseled Michelangelo’s creation. You recognize the Renaissance style, but this one doesn’t seem familiar. You’ve studied art history extensively in advance you managed to point out almost every piece in your previous museum visits, but this one misses your mark. Maybe this one is a lost collection that has yet made it into the media presence. You wonder if the museum would soon be another De Young or Met.
You lean over to look at the figure’s hollow eyes. The deeper you look, the less hollow it becomes. Eyeballs materialize, the rigid, curly-looking hair softens. Colors and warmth flow through the skin tone, slowly revealing a thin strip of red mark running along the neck. Later, a jolt of familiarity kicks in and before long, you hear it croak.
“Help…”
Something cold creeps along your arm. You see a plaster hand closing around it. Your mind instantly races. Finding terror through such beauty is the last thing you expect from your visit.
“You…did this.” He continues in a voice that sounds like his vocal cords have been ripped off.
A couple forceful thrashes later, you feel the weight coming off your arm, followed by a loud crashing sound against the hard marble floor. The commotion causes an echo crawling through the walls. You look up to find him all frozen, plaster, and cold again, his right arm chopped off from the brawl.
As if your previous encounter isn’t traumatizing enough, you are greeted with a number of dioramas lodged to each side of the wall of the next gallery space. This space is smaller compared to the rest. You almost have trust issues with anything resembling human now, but you can’t help but the least you could do is skip through the room to go to another one. Any minute now, if you don’t push for it, this experience can turn into an elaborate escape room. You lean over to each diorama, each depicting a scene with a realistic-looking background. You can’t help but admire the craftsmanship put into the details. Unlike the previous plaster man, the lifelike figures put you at ease, inviting you to take a look closer.
The diorama illustrates a series of scenes depicting young men, seemingly artists huddling at a lounge over a coffee. There are no explanations regarding the scenes, so you decide to make it out yourself. You begin to hear low chatters as you move to another diorama–that is when you realize the whole diorama series are set up likely animation frames, where animators draw each scene by hand to illustrate a pose that eventually makes up a whole movement. A twinge of familiarity sweeps you over, and you’re immediately transported to the very scene unfolding a year ago. You wish your mind is playing tricks on you when you catch a lifelike gentleman sitting among the other diorama figures, and you can’t help but stare at a mirror at the uncanny resemblance.
And now, the constant chatters–once low whispers growing louder and vivid. Now they seep through every crack of the room, thumping against your ears, throwing reminders at you of what you did a year ago, and possibly the years before.
As much you tried to bury your darkest secret to the darkest extent, it will somehow find its way back to the surface and bite you back. You try covering your ears, but the noise creeps inside your head, pounding within your brain, infused in your thoughts. You feel yourself giving into the gravity. Plaster disembodied hands emerge from the cracks, reaching out to you, and pinning you down. This time, you give into the overwhelming force. A counter force will only rip your bodies apart. Slowly, you feel your muscles freeze. There isn’t much to do now that your scream is drowned by the darkness.
The last thing you expect from a museum visit is to find terror hiding within the beauty surrounding you. But here you are: a part of the beauty created through terror.
* * *
The next time you hear about the advertisement about the newly-opened contemporary museum called The White Box, you might want to take a second look. Check back with a friend who came up with the invitation and look back through the history you’ve shared together.
After all, The White Box not only offers you a visit of a lifetime. But the collection is incredibly rare, specially curated and crafted for your redemption convenience. I do hope you enjoy your visit.
Carissa Tandiono 