I am painfully aware that I left my workplace before the end of the working day. It feels neither good nor right. But the murals plague me more with every passing minute. Why do I like them so much? It must surely have something to do with the art itself, which is an area of human behaviour unknown to me. Until now.
I have learned from experience that, if something is bugging me, I first need to isolate its constituent parts, perform a few calculations, then examine the result. I can’t imagine that a room full of old paintings will be any different in this regard. I know that most of them represent landscapes and people, mostly depicted in a realistic style. This means they include measurements, perspective and distance, something concrete, well-defined characteristics. I am certain I have performed more complicated calculations in the past.
As I step off the train, small, thin droplets of rain fall from the sky, as though someone upstairs is unsure whether it should rain or not. Rush hour on the platform. I avoid people, walk through the station building booming with the sound of the crowds, cross two streets, then find myself in the Ateneum – which feels pleasantly serene and quiet – for the first time in almost thirty years. I buy a ticket and hire a set of headphones. I ask how long the explanations last, but the ticket vendor, with yellow hair and oblong glasses, is unable to give me a precise idea of this. She starts humming and hawing, estimating the length of the sections at anything from thirty seconds to ‘under five minutes, maybe’. I hope she isn’t responsible for explaining the actual works of art. Listening to such approximate musings for too long would be painful. I thank her, and I’ve already reached the steps leading up to the galleries containing the art when the vendor shouts after me. She tells me there’s a special exhibition too. That’s the term she uses. I ask what’s so special about it. Monet, she says, then starts chit-chatting again. This time I instantly cut her short. I tell her firmly, once and for all, that I wish to see every piece of art in the building; that’s why I’m here. She gives me a curious look and sells me another ticket, this time, mercifully, without saying a word.
My plan runs into difficulties almost immediately. From both a temporal and a strategic perspective, the first room proves far more challenging than I had predicted. I can’t stick to my target of two and a half minutes per painting, and I’m unable to compile a satisfactory list of bullet points about each individual work. Some of the canvasses fall into logical patterns that open up at first glance (house + crossroads + tree + spring weather = fresh air in a small French village) and provide a sufficiently rational and proportionate explanation of why it is nice to look at them. Then there are other canvasses that don’t initially provide anything concrete to grab hold of (splotches + splashes + lines + colours = experimental use of paint) but in which after a while I can see something different altogether (splotches + splashes + lines + colours = x). What all of these paintings have in common is that I stand looking at them far longer than necessary.
It’s the same phenomenon as with the images of the murals, and again I ask myself: why am I looking at something longer than it takes to acquire the information I need? It’s as though my brain has switched to a different track. The same happens from one painting to the next. The first room alone takes up almost half of my allotted time. I sigh out loud. There’s no way I’ll be able to go through all the rooms in the museum before meeting Laura Helanto. Besides, examining works of art isn’t foremost in my mind at the moment: far more pressing matters include starting a money-lending business, avoiding the noose and keeping a group of professional criminals happy for however long our undesirable collaboration lasts.
But right now, here I am.
I glance around and resist the temptation to revisit some of the paintings that, for some reason, I liked more than the others. At the same time, I look at the other people in the room. There are only three of them. A couple at the far end of the room, a woman in the middle. I realise that the woman has stood in approximately the same place the whole time I’ve been in the room. It seems I’m not the only one for whom the fine arts caused problems.
I make a quick decision and head for the special exhibition. The name sounds promising. I need a special solution.
Monet, I think. So be it.
The exhibition gets off to a good start. There are fewer paintings, they are larger, and they contain clear patterns and forms. With a view to working things out, this looks very promising. I am approaching the first painting, my eyes firmly focussed on it, so firmly in fact that I only sense and hear the footsteps moving in the same direction once they are right next to me. I turn my head.
Laura Helanto.
At the moment I see her, something warm shimmers through me, an inexplicable wave of joy, excitement and tingling. I don’t understand it. The last time I saw her was in the adventure park, and that was only a few hours ago. I consider this reflex a distinct over-reaction.
‘Hi,’ she whispers.
‘Hi,’ I reply, only to realise you’re supposed to speak in hushed tones in here.
‘You made it,’ says Laura Helanto. ‘So, how do you like it?’
I quickly look up at the first painting. It is about three metres wide and two metres tall. It seems to show blurry flowers and waterlilies in some kind of pond. Still, there are pleasingly few elements in the painting.
‘I like the size of these paintings,’ I say. ‘And I like that they portray one thing at a time. I like being able to concentrate.’
‘Monet painted dozens of canvasses at the same little pond.’
‘Ah,’ I say. ‘One painting per waterlily.’
Laura Helanto splutters with laughter and holds a hand across her mouth. I don’t think I said anything amusing, I was simply commenting on the most logical and probable scenario: how many waterlilies, let alone waterlily flowers, can fit into one and the same pond? We both look at Monet’s painting, silent for a moment.
‘Don’t get me wrong,’ says Laura. ‘But I didn’t put you down as an art gallery kind of man. I didn’t think you’d be all that interested.’
‘I am very interested in art,’ I say, perfectly sincerely. ‘But I still haven’t seen anything as good as your murals.’
From the corner of my eye I see, or rather I can feel on my right cheek, how Laura turns to glance at me. We stand quietly in front of the painting until Laura breaks the silence.
‘Would you like to look at them in peace? It’s my second time at this exhibition. And I’ve seen these paintings before.’
‘Then you might be able to tell me what each of them is about,’ I say.
‘Gladly. I know a thing or two. I can tell you what I know. Then you can listen to the commentary and tell me which bits I got right.’
‘I doubt we’ll have time to check your answers. The museum will be closing soon.’
Laura smiles, almost laughs.
‘You’ve got a good sense of humour,’ she says, and I’m not entirely sure what she’s referring to.
We walk around two large rooms and stand in front of several paintings for varying lengths of time. To my surprise, we sometimes pass a larger painting with barely a few words, then stop to examine a much smaller painting for a relatively long time. Laura is an excellent guide, though I don’t understand everything she says. At no point does she provide an explanation for what I have come here to find out. And I don’t mind. Laura’s company, her voice, the mere presence of the canvasses. Right now, that feels more important. It is more important, I think, then straight away: what exactly is the matter with me?