Page 21 of Chaos Theory

TWENTY-ONE

While the Social Committee is officially a democratic organisation, it is in fact helmed by a benign dictator, in the form of Sandra Smith. That’s according to Shane’s daily message updates to me. He’s hinted that a coup may be on the cards before too long.

Yesterday, we all got an email invitation to ‘Art therapy with Trish Horgan’.

So we are now gathered in the gift shop for the first work social, overlooked by Trish’s monstrous creations.

I remind myself that Trish is married to JP and turn my attention towards the centre of the room, where my boss’s boss’s wife is busily unpacking art supplies.

Two rows of easels form a circle around the room, each one equipped with paints and brushes.

I lead Kobi to one of them, smile to reassure him.

‘I’ll be right behind you in the next row, in case you need me.

But this is a chance for you to, y’know, mingle.

Get to know your colleagues. Try to have fun. ’

Shane takes up a position to Kobi’s left, a move we agreed on earlier.

Shane is good with people. Popular, without trying.

Maybe some of it will rub off on Kobi. One by one, all the easels find an artist, except for the one right next to Kobi.

Dave is the last to arrive. He tuts loudly as he accepts his fate and his position next to the newest member of staff.

I stand behind an easel, fiddle with the paintbrushes.

I can keep an eye on Kobi from here. This wouldn’t have been my first choice of activity, but I guess Sandra hadn’t figured the need to safely entertain human and android colleagues into her yearly budget.

Trish is probably doing this for free. I asked Kobi if he’d even be able to participate in an art activity, and he assured me he would.

Wary of what he did to the company website on his first day, I tell him he won’t be able to access any internet tools during the activity and anything he creates will have to be his own work.

‘People think that robots do not know anything about art,’ I hear him say to Shane.

‘But in August the PicassoBot 5000 was shortlisted for the Turner Prize, for a submission titled Is It Still Life? . The work comprised a hen’s egg frozen in a bucket of ice.

Conceptual Art Monthly magazine called it “the most ground-breaking piece of art since Marcel Duchamp’s Fountain ”. ’

‘Duchamp?’ says Shane. ‘Oh, he really took the piss, didn’t he?’

I can tell this confuses Kobi and I’m thankful someone else is entertaining him for a while. I’m also thankful when Trish claps her hands and says, ‘Welcome, welcome, one and all. Can I have your attention please?’

Trish is wearing a floral dress, ankle-high boots and a long silk scarf wrapped around her throat and thrown over her shoulders.

As she speaks, one scarf end appears on her right shoulder and tries to make its way to the centre of her chest. She picks it up and flings it back over her shoulder.

A moment later, it happens again. This action is repeated at regular intervals throughout the time Trish speaks to us.

She introduces herself as an artist with many strings to her bow.

She’s dabbled in most of the creative and performing arts, always moving on to a new one before she really has a chance to break out into success in any one field, it seems. She likes to keep things fresh. She doesn’t mention JP.

‘Can anyone tell me what art is all about? What’s the essence of it? Why do we like it? ’

I pray that someone other than Kobi will answer, and for once my prayers are answered. Imelda calls out, ‘Art is about originality.’

Trish smiles. ‘No. Art is about truth.’

I can tell Kobi is gearing up to ask about this, but luckily Trish moves on without elaboration.

‘Now. What is “art therapy”? I’m sure some of you are wondering, “Has Trish gone completely crackers now or what?” Before I explain it, does anyone want to tell me what they think art therapy is?’

I hear Dave mutter, ‘It’s what I need after any time spent near your wreck-the-head paintings.’

Unfortunately, Kobi chooses this moment to be helpful. ‘David has a theory,’ he says to Trish.

‘Ah, hello, you must be Kobi,’ says Trish. ‘I’ve heard all about you. I see you’re flying the flag for Ireland there. Beautiful use of colour. I can tell we’re going to get along. Now, what were you saying? David, do you know what art therapy is?’

‘No,’ mumbles Dave.

As Trish delivers her explanation, Dave reaches over and grabs Kobi’s paintbrush.

He chooses some colours from his own palette, then quickly daubs a figure on the blank paper in front of him.

Then he paints a large red X through the figure.

He taps Kobi on the arm, nods at him, then nods sideways to the picture.

It’s crudely done, but there’s no mistaking the figure. It’s Kobi.

‘Art therapy involves using artistic expression to work through emotional or psychological issues,’ Trish is saying. ‘Now, I know that might sound a bit heavy, but I didn’t want you all to think you had to compete with these.’ She gestures to the walls. ‘I know it’s intimidating.’

A sound like suppressed sneezing comes from the other side of the circle.

‘This is a safe space,’ she continues. ‘That’s why the easels are arranged in a circle.

Right now, I want you to look inward. Use all the paints and brushes at your disposal.

In fact, don’t even use the brushes unless you want to.

Use your fingers, hands or even other parts of your body.

I want you to express on the canvas what it means to you when I say the word “family”.

There are no rules. Just let it flow through you. ’

We all make a start. Dave detaches his anti-Kobi picture from his easel.

As he casts around for somewhere to discard it, Kobi says to him, ‘David, may I please keep your picture of me?’

I was wondering if he’d recognised himself.

‘All right,’ Dave replies gruffly.

‘It is the first time I have been the subject of a portrait. I shall attach it to the wall next to my sleep pod. There is no mirror in my room. It would be nice to have a daily reminder of how others see me. Of course, it would be better if the red X were not part of the picture, but art is never perfect.’

I thought that Kobi would struggle to hold a paintbrush, but to my surprise, he reveals a hidden grip embedded in his right arm. It looks quite delicate but perfect for holding a fine brush. He gets busy with placing paint onto the brush, then onto the page.

Dave starts working on the family assignment too, using his hands to spread black, brown and red paint across the paper. I can’t make out any human figures. I suppose it’s possible that Dave’s family are alien mud monsters.

I peek over at Shane’s art. It’s abstract but not unpleasant to look at, with swirls and swooshes in various colours. Probably the colours of his local hurling team. He seems content to be lost in it anyway.

I look at my own page, still blank. I can’t seem to start it. It doesn’t seem right to draw a picture that’s just me and Mam. But I can’t face the idea of painting Dad with us either. And I don’t want to represent him as a ghost, or something otherworldly. How do you draw an absence?

‘I call this one Drawing a Blank ,’ I mutter to myself.

I decide to mix all the colours together on my palette for something to do .

5pm

Trish invites us to move around the room to see what everyone has created.

It’s surprisingly fun. Imelda has painted a traditional Christmas scene, with children playing by a fireside, while nearby a group of adults share food and conversation at a long table.

Julia has painted a portrait of a woman who looks like an older version of herself, wearing colourful robes.

Duncan Canning has gone wild with a family tree metaphor.

The whole canvas is taken up with one enormous tree; dozens of branches house tiny stick-figure family units.

In the end and out of ideas, I opted to paint what I saw around me, so I now have a picture of Shane, Kobi and Dave painting their pictures, with others sketchily drawn in the background.

When Dave sees it he says, ‘Aw, Maeve, I didn’t expect this honour, from you of all people.’ His tone as caustic as paint remover. I ignore him.

Trish asks, ‘Well, what do you think of each other’s work?’

Kobi says, ‘Trish, by objective standards, there is clearly artistic talent among the staff. May I make a suggestion?’

She nods.

‘These paintings should be on display.’

‘I agree, Kobi. People can take them home and display them there.’

‘But we are standing right now in a gallery of sorts. Art is made to be experienced by others.’

‘Now that’s not necessarily the case, Kobi,’ says Trish. ‘I have to disagree with you there. Art is creative expression, even if no one else ever sees it.’ She flings the scarf over her shoulder again.

‘And I must disagree with you, Trish. Art only becomes art when another being recognises it as art.’

Uh-oh.

‘Well, I hate to say it, Kobi, but I’m not sure you’re the most qualified to comment, really, given that you’re not an artist yourself.’

Someone behind me makes a low ‘oooh’ sound.

‘I’m sorry if that sounds a bit harsh,’ says Trish. ‘Let’s have a look at your work. See if you managed to get anything onto the page.’

Kobi escorts Trish to his easel. Everyone else goes quiet.

‘Oh,’ she says. ‘That’s… I mean… How did you…?’

At first glance Kobi’s painting looks almost like a photograph. It’s a close-up portrait of Josh. It looks like a pointillism technique, with individual pinpoints of paint clustered together.

‘Wow,’ says Julia.

‘Ah here,’ says Dave. ‘That’s got to be cheating somehow. Right, Trish? Although…it is technically very good, I suppose.’

‘It’s…’ says Trish. ‘It’s…’

‘Amazing,’ says Julia. ‘Maeve – you didn’t tell us he could do portraits. Kobi, could you do one of me?’

Shane joins the conversation. ‘Kobi, do you think you could do more of these? Maybe do some landscapes as well? I think we could sell these. Here in the shop. Uh, alongside Trish’s work as well, of course.’

It’s unclear if Trish hears Shane’s comment because she’s moved away to noisily gather up brushes and paints and pack them into a bag.

‘Shane, might I suggest one section of the gallery be reserved for staff paintings?’ Kobi says. ‘Imelda’s and Julia’s work should be displayed. Perhaps David’s too.’

‘Great idea, Kobi,’ says Shane. ‘I think we can find room for everyone.’

Kobi moves over to one of the walls, points to Trish’s paintings. ‘If we take down some of these, there will be enough space to display them.’

‘Trish, what do you think?’ Shane calls to her.

But Trish has her back to us and doesn’t answer. As she packs away the art supplies, there’s something in the twitchy movement of her scarf that makes me think of a snake.