Author's note: I love classical art. The Romantic Period, from the mid 1800's to the First World War is basically my favourite period of dress, music and painting. We should all make an effort to go visit our local art galleries, libraries and orchestras. These people work hard and deserve our time.
--1--
Art was my life. I had studied the classics in university. I could basically recite Molière at the drop of a hat, and I had spent more time staring at paintings than I had dating. Naturally, I worked in an art gallery in the downtown.
The gallery had always been my sanctuary, a bastion of quiet sophistication amid the clamor of downtown Montreal. At thirty-five, I had carved out a modest niche within the 1920's art deco walls, managing a collection that seemed more a reflection of my own aspirations than of any broader cultural movement. Most of our gallery's collection was of the romantic period, when Québécois culture was asserting itself in the pre-war boom, and English Canadian naturalists were still discovering their nationhood.
My name is Nils—Nils Lundberg, if you're being formal—and as a curator of this modest gallery, I take immense pride in every carefully hung piece and meticulously arranged exhibit. My life, too, had a certain precision to it, dictated by the demands of both the art world and my own expectations. It's probably the reason I was still single, despite being a guy who drank culture like coffee and coffee like... uh, coffee?
My average height, blond hair, and blue eyes often make me blend into a sea of faces. My Swedish ancestry makes its subtle mark in my demeanor and the impressive quality of both my Canadian French and English, which slips effortlessly into conversations with my Montreal neighbors. At home, Swedish phrases mix with French sentences, a private linguistic dance that only I fully understand. Also, my house plants. The conversation is still pretty one-sided however. My condo sits high above the bustling streets and serves as a solitary retreat from the chaos below - especially in winter. It looks like an IKEA went out of business in my condo, but without a partner to share it with, the minimalist interior serves me fine. It just gives me more space to store books.
Oh, and clothing. Every man should have a well tailored wardrobe.
Daily, I don a suit that straddles the line between fashionable and formal—an armor of sorts for my battles in the art world. The gallery, with its art deco grandeur and its collection of early industrial art from the 1920s and 1930s, reflects a bygone era I have always felt a particular affinity for.
My fashion sense reflects that. I love three-button suits, and the colours of grey, brown and blue are always my go-to, over the modern pastels.
My work is a place where the past seems suspended in time, preserving moments of brilliance and artistry long after their creators have departed. Yet, as the gallery's curator, I am tasked with more than mere display. I'm also responsible for patronage. Which is art gallery speaking for asking for money. Usually from the obscenely wealthy; lawyers, accountants and business owners who wander around the downtown core on lunchbreaks looking for a quiet place away from the street.
In these times of economic uncertainty, my job has become increasingly precarious. The recession has strained budgets and shifted priorities. My once-secure position is now a tightrope walk, balancing the legacy of our collection with the urgent need to attract new patrons. Despite my considerable education and experience—my degrees in art history and curation, my years of dedication—the gallery faces the very real threat of closure. I'd like to think that it's just because people are too busy, but deep down I know it's because there a billion things today to do, and art never ranks high on people's to-do list. I'm certain there are a dozen opera houses, orchestras and museums in the same predicament as me.
The mounting stress has not deterred me, though. Instead, it has fueled a plan, a glimmer of hope in an otherwise bleak situation. My proposal is simple yet ambitious: extend the gallery's hours to midnight on Fridays and Saturdays, transforming it into a vibrant cultural venue where art meets social interaction. Cocktails and contemporary music would provide a novel allure, enticing a younger and more diverse crowd to step through our doors. It was a gamble, but one I felt was worth taking.
Deep down I was going to die a little doing this. If the only way that young people would want to come see the gallery was by serving orange cocktails and having some techno playing, then I was willing to do it, but I couldn't help but feel like I was selling out the whole point of the gallery.
Yet, here I was.
The event was the culmination of weeks of planning and negotiation. I paced the gallery floor, my eyes flitting between the poised bartender and the lively DJ setup near the entrance. The bartender - one of our ticket takers by day - impeccably dressed in a black vest and white shirt, meticulously polished the crystal glasses. I made a mental note to ask her if she was a bartender before she worked here.
Each delicate chime of the glass that she clinks against the cloth seemed to resonate with the anticipation hanging in the air. The DJ's electronic beats pulsed through the gallery, a rhythmic contrast to the classical music that typically filled the space. I didn't immediately dislike the music. It did not quite fit with the pieces within the gallery, but it definitely made the space feel livelier.
I watched as the bartender placed the glasses with precise care on the counter. The clinking sounds mingled with the low hum of the music. The DJ, surrounded by a myriad of colorful knobs and dials that I was secretly convinced did absolutely nothing, crafted a soundscape that felt both modern and eclectic—exactly what we needed to attract the crowd we sought.
In the stillness of these final moments before the event, the gallery felt transformed. It was no longer just a place of hushed reverence but a dynamic, evolving space that held the promise of renewal. That actually kind of pissed me off.
I took a deep breath, adjusted my suit, and allowed myself a moment of quiet reflection. This was my chance to reinvigorate the gallery, to shift its trajectory from potential closure to a thriving cultural hub. As the clock inched closer to the evening's start, I knew that tonight's success—or failure—would define the future of this place I so deeply cherished. Also, we just really needed the money.
As the evening progressed, the gallery transformed into a dazzling spectacle of lights, cocktails, and ambient music. Patrons, all of them dressed like modern men and women in evening casual, mingled and admired the art, their voices a low hum against the backdrop of electronic beats. I moved among them, my tailored suit feeling like a second skin and also remarkably overdressed for the occasion. The atmosphere was charged with a newfound energy, and I could not help but feel a sense of optimism.
At the very least, people were spending a fair bit of money on booze. That was not going to hurt us in the slightest.
I approached the bar, where the bartender was busy serving drinks into the glasses she had spent the afternoon cleaning. Her movements were meticulous, almost choreographed. I leaned in, attempting to gauge how the evening was progressing.
"Everything's going splendidly," she said, her eyes gleaming with a mix of excitement and exhaustion, before I had even had a chance to open my mouth. "We've already made more tonight than we usually see in a week at the front office."
She smiled at me. It was friendly, but conveyed a message... "leave me alone boss, I'm working".
I was stunned. The potential success of the event was taking shape before my eyes. Just as I was about to express my enthusiasm, my attention was diverted by the arrival of two striking figures.
I suddenly felt very, very, very underdressed.
From the lobby, two women entered, commanding the room with an air of regal elegance. Both were dressed in deep black and crimson gowns that European aristocracy of the 1700s would wear. Their attire was stunning, anachronistic yet impeccably tailored. Even from across the room, I could make out that their ball gowns came down to the floor, and covered their arms and shoulders, but left a considerable about of their bust on display. The contrast of their garments against the gallery's modern decor was wild.
