Untitled IV

Kareem arrived at the art fair grounds around noon. At first glance, the place seemed empty, as if it had just opened. Then he caught sight of a few people wandering in silence from one section to the other. He had been to this vast space before. Located at one end of a sprawling public park downtown, the tent-like structure was alternately used as a concert hall and a center for business conventions and trade fairs.

This was the art fair’s second year, and it was dedicated solely to a selection of young and promising artists. Kareem had not heard about this special exhibition the year before, but this year, he frequently came across its announcements in art news and encountered its visually appealing posters plastered on walls around the city. Therefore, he decided to pay a visit on the weekend.

Before touring the exhibition, he walked up to the cylindrical stand that served as an information desk for the fair, placed in the center of the grounds. A young man was bent over, stacking books by the side of the desk, pulling them from a box under the counter. He informed Kareem that the visit was free of charge and gave him one of the books—a very high-quality print catalog of the art fair with images of some of the work on display.

The tent’s inner walls and ceiling were pitch black, which created the illusion of a vaulted, endless space above the low pendant lights. The artworks were placed on white-painted, low, labyrinthine walls that divided the wide exhibition area into micro-galleries and formed each artist’s private display area.

Kareem started at the left wing of the fair. This side was even quieter. The insufficient public interest in the nascent art fair saddened him. He was used to visiting overly crowded museums and art events, which were often as festive as a Christmas market or a carnival. However, as he peacefully walked and examined the artworks at his leisure, Kareem soon realized there were merits to quiet—like not hurriedly drifting from one piece to another, distracted by other viewers, or being careful not to obstruct another’s view.

He examined the works slowly and closely, to his heart’s desire. Thanks to his curiosity to understand art and the fair amount of knowledge he possessed about modern art history, he was not intimidated by the diversity of contemporary art. He had learned to appreciate unusual, quirky presentations for their artistic invention, uniqueness, and creativity.

The first gallery displayed an artist’s large-scale, black-and-white photographs of derelict construction sites in a megacity. Yet subtle manipulations had been made to the images to make the works look even more overbearing and oppressive. In the second gallery, the work consisted of delicate illustrations on paper. But there was a sinister beauty in the elaborate compositions. Only a careful eye could detect the human body parts and organs almost hidden within the intricate lines.

As he slowly proceeded to the next gallery, Kareem remembered the catalog he had been given at the information desk. The catalog included each artist’s biography and some images of the works on display but offered no explanation about style or technique. The first page featured a letter from the director who, judging from the small accompanying photo, was a young woman.

Although he was making an effort to understand the intentions of the artists and appreciate their creative ideas, so far, Kareem had not felt an intimate connection with any of the artwork in the fair. Unconsciously, he looked at each work with the expectation of being deeply impressed, somehow captivated by the art.

In fact, this expectation was not specific to art. Kareem’s search for a deeper connection had become a private challenge in every aspect of his life, whenever he was in a position of choosing from many. But spontaneous certainty about his choices rarely happened. Mostly, he found himself making rash decisions or asking for advice from close friends.

His intimate life was plagued by this inability too. He had only become aware of this pattern after his marriage had disintegrated.

He had definitely not been swept off his feet when he first met his ex-wife. Actually, he was annoyed at the beginning by her impatient advances, but he had not resisted when she initiated the relationship. Just as he hadn’t resisted her decision to separate when she had decided that was best, without bothering to discuss it with him or attempt to save the relationship.

But he never gave up hope that one day he would know what he really wanted. He assumed that this kind of awareness formed the pinnacle of human experience, at least as he’d witnessed its manifestation in others who found requited love.

Whenever he mingled with a group of people, he always wondered whether one of the women might impress him with her manners, conversation, or her scent, causing that stirring in his heart.

Unknowingly, he embarked on this quest as he walked through each artist’s gallery space. He wished to have an inexplicable yet instant fascination for an artwork.

Arriving at the end of the left side of the fair, Kareem could attest that the curators had picked works of talent for their novelty and potential to shock. Yet he still had not established any deep connection with a single piece, even though he had tried to engage in an intellectual dialogue with many of them.

When he arrived at the end of the left-wing galleries, he walked across to the right side. A few people walked leisurely ahead of him in sports clothes, as if they had just dropped by after jogging in the park.

After viewing a few galleries displaying photography, metal sculpture, and video installations, Kareem stopped outside a smaller space gallery with three large canvas paintings. They were all landscapes depicting a rocky mountain, a stretch of shore, and a dark plane that resembled the sea at the bottom. At first sight, they looked very plain, painted in a few shades of Prussian blue, gray, and black. Kareem had the impression that all three of them were the same giant granite rock soaring to the dark skies like a mountain, in different viewpoints. Jagged blocks of rocks towered above the sea surface and leaned toward the viewer.

Intrigued by the unassuming yet otherworldly topography on the canvases, he stepped inside the three-walled gallery to view them closer. Now he could see the canvases were meticulously layered with shades and texture. Examining the details of the cliffs, he imagined the artist had put immense labor and painstaking attention into them. After looking at the paintings for a while, reluctant to leave their humble nook, Kareem started to find them beautiful and interesting rather than intimidating or unimaginative.

Kareem would have lingered longer in front of the paintings, but a young family with a stroller joined him in the narrow gallery. He respectfully moved on to the next gallery. The art fair was starting to fill with visitors. Kareem toured the rest of the galleries on the right side. His eyes viewed the rest of the art, but he did not experience another stirring sensation equal to that caused by the landscape paintings. Some of them seemed interesting, unusual. However, only the landscape paintings continued to haunt him.

His tour of the right-wing galleries ended. Kareem found himself in front of the information desk, where the same attendant as before was now joined by a young woman. They were handing out catalogs to newly arriving visitors. Behind the desk was the gate. There, the black walls of the tent had been folded open, letting in the glare of daylight.

Kareem decided he could leave the fair to go to the park café and read his book or return to the landscape paintings.

He entered the galleries on the right side and joined the crowd drifting from one gallery to another like a school of fish undulating with the currents. Kareem patiently examined the other artworks once again.

Finally, the two elderly women in front of him moved into the small gallery that held the landscape paintings. Apparently uninterested, the women briefly checked out the paintings over their colorful reading glasses. They proceeded to the next gallery without exchanging their opinions as they had with the works in some of the other galleries.

Kareem faced the three large landscape canvases once again. He stood by the corner, out of the way of the passing visitors. Other viewers looked in and passed on, but he stayed with his attention on the painting in gray and dark Prussian blue. This one appealed to him more. There was a small patch of bright, blood red in the center of the painting resembling a rectangular structure. Other than that, there was no other organic or geometric form. At the top of the canvas was a plane of blue that could pass as a piece of sky. A separate plane at the bottom could represent a seashore, one without waves or a reflection of shimmering light. In the middle of the painting was a wide dirt road leading to the red structure.

Feeling certain that his fascination for the painting was real and permanent, a latent desire surfaced. For some time, he had been seriously contemplating hanging genuine art on the walls of his new home. He’d hung large Chagall and Kandinsky posters purchased from the New York Guggenheim Museum in the one-bedroom apartment he’d rented as a bachelor.

After his ex-wife got rid of the posters, they’d opted for IKEA art and had hung multiple mirrors around the house.

After the divorce, he had recently renovated and furnished his new spacious apartment in a minimalist style, but he’d hung nothing so far. It was strange for someone who loved art. In recent years, he had noticed more people had humble collections of original artworks: illustrations, watercolors, ceramic objects, hand-painted plates. And now he was wealthy enough to consider purchasing a large canvas of original art.

His reluctance to decorate the walls harkened back to his childhood. He’d hated his mother’s love for collecting and displaying numerous porcelain curios and embroidered linen, turning the living room into a cluttered antique shop. He preferred the simple harmony he had achieved with the minimalist decoration in his new home.

For the first time, Kareem found himself on the verge of buying an artwork. Although the dark, cool-colored painting he’d chosen was in contrast with his soft beige sofa and light brown rug, he silenced his doubts.

Still standing in the gallery, Kareem had no idea how to purchase the painting. He glanced toward the information desk. Then he thought of checking the catalog. Two paintings were included on the pages dedicated to the artist. The one he chose was placed by itself on one whole page. Kareem considered this a sign of its quality. He read the brief text about the artwork. The title was “Untitled IV.” Perhaps this indicated the artist’s obsession with the subject. Likely, Untitled I and Untitled III also portrayed different angles of the same sinister rock in a similar color palette. Untitled II must be at the studio, sold, or destroyed. He checked the back pages of the catalog, but there was no mention of pricing.

Feeling excited, Kareem walked determinedly toward the information desk. The two attendants were sitting closely, seemingly engaged in an intimate conversation.

At first, Kareem looked for a price list on top of the information desk. In the past, he had come across printouts of price lists in some private art galleries.

Noticing Kareem, the young woman stood up and asked how she could help.

“I’d like to acquire a painting,” Kareem said to her.

“Acquire? Sorry?”

“I mean, I’d like to buy it,” Kareem said and hastily leafed through the catalog to find the image of the painting.

“To buy?” the young woman repeated, looking confused.

“Yes, do you know the price of this piece?” Kareem showed her his beloved artwork.

The young woman gazed at the page for a while, her mouth slightly open. Then she turned to the young man, who was now talking to some other visitors. She interrupted them and whispered into his ear. At once, the young man turned to Kareem with a surprised look in his eyes. After sending away the other visitors, the two attendants looked around the exhibition hall. They talked between themselves, and the man left the desk.

“Hi, sorry, can I ask you to wait for a while? We’ll call the fair director,” said the young woman.

Kareem nodded and turned aside, feeling uneasy at the attendants’ surprised, unprofessional reaction. He felt overly self-conscious, as if he had asked for something inappropriate.

In a few minutes, the attendant returned with a young woman in a dark tailored jacket and skirt. She was tall and had an oblong face with prominent features. As she approached, Kareem guessed from her puzzled look that she was as clueless as the attendants. She introduced herself to Kareem as the director of the art fair; she folded her arms and tilted her head slightly to the right side.

“I’m interested in buying this painting,” said Kareem, again showing the image in the catalog.

Kareem sensed the woman was weighing him from head to toe, probably trying to assess his wealth and social status. Under her gaze, he felt small and momentarily questioned his own net worth to own the artwork.

“The public viewing started only yesterday. We’ll contact our collectors later this week,” she said, speaking slowly, her expression serious.

Kareem did not understand what she meant and interpreted her words as an effort to get rid of him. He was suddenly very irritated, regretted his inquiry, and was desperate to leave the place as soon as possible.

“Can we have your phone number? To inform you when collector viewings commence?”

The director motioned to the attendant, who looked around and brought a notebook to the counter. Kareem gave his name and phone number, which the attendant recorded on a blank page.

After thanking the director, Kareem almost fled the art fair. He took a path through groves of lush trees and flower patches, walking up the gentle slope toward the greenhouse café in the heart of the park. Joggers, dog walkers, mothers, and groups of teenagers filled the park, enjoying the sunny weekend. Kareem sat at the café and, while having his coffee, calmly pondered the awkward incident at the art fair.

He came to the conclusion that the art fair had special rules about sales transactions. Maybe the artworks were not available for sale at all. Kareem was totally alien to the inner workings of the art market. He decided not to take the director’s attitude personally, no matter how bizarre it had been.

Back at home, he was almost grateful to the young woman who might have saved him from a rushed, impulsive purchase. The money would stay and proliferate in his bank accounts, awaiting the future.

* * *

During the following week, while resting on the sofa after work, Kareem often looked at the art fair catalog, which had joined other art books on his coffee table. Sometimes he started from the first page and looked at all the other works, and when he arrived at “Untitled IV,” he regretted how much he still liked it—so much more than all the other pieces. Other times, he turned straight to the painting and, once more, admired the composition, color, and the curious red structure in the heart of the cold, threatening rock. The humiliation he’d felt after his interaction with the director had faded quickly, leaving in its place the melancholy of a lost connection, a promising convergence in the dark, void space. He understood how rare such a connection was; most of life seemed to be about tolerating irrelevant encounters and mismatched experiences, or whatever other people determined was hip and cool—the dictated taste of the majority.

He never mentioned the art fair incident to anyone. There was nobody among his acquaintances interested in art, let alone anyone who would understand his desire to own an original artwork at a considerable cost.

The walls of his home remained blank, and the memory of the painting started to fade in Kareem’s mind. Then, one afternoon, he received an unexpected call from the art fair’s director.

“The fair has ended, and we have started closing the inquiries of the collectors,” she said. “Some works were previously optioned; some were sold. But the work you were interested in is still available.”

“It’s been some time, I don’t know,” Kareem replied. “I do think of the painting sometimes,” he added, then asked the price of the piece.

In the heavy silence that followed, Kareem held his breath. What he was about to learn could be a six-figure amount—or a modest two-figure sum. Yet, he knew money had nothing to do with the sublimity of the artwork.

To Kareem’s surprise, the painting was less than half of his monthly salary.

“Yes, I’d like to accept the offer. For ‘Untitled IV.’ I liked it the most,” Kareem said, his excitement rising.

“Of course, I see in my notes as ‘Untitled IV,’ too,” the director said. “On Sunday, we are holding a collector’s gathering—the last display for the sold artworks. I hope you’ll consent to this final show and join us to honor the event?”

Kareem agreed, and they hung up. That evening, back at home and still disbelieving what had happened, he took the art fair catalog and looked at the image of “Untitled IV.” This reduced, flat, two-dimensional reproduction seemed insignificant compared to the original. He remembered the incredible painstaking details of the layered, subtle color shifts and the carefully applied texture. He stood in the middle of the living room and held the catalog’s “Untitled IV” page up against the empty walls, trying to decide where it would look best.

* * *

The collector’s exhibition was in a private gallery in the old section of downtown. Kareem climbed the building’s spiraling, worn marble stairs to the gallery floor. He had to ring an ancient doorbell. One side of a two-winged, towering door opened, and he was welcomed inside like a guest at an afternoon tea party.

People were dispersed within spacious rooms that seemed to open into each other. Some stood in groups in front of the artworks hanging on the white walls; others sat on the limited number of sofas and chairs. The director approached Kareem so that he didn’t have to wander alone for long. This time, she looked more radiant and relaxed, but still had an aura of aloofness about her. Perhaps Kareem had that impression because of her height and the derisive half-smile on her oblong face.

She took Kareem to a small back room where “Untitled IV” hung. In this quiet corner, with no viewer around and illuminated gently by a soft spotlight, the painting seemed to be in deep meditation, peacefully observing itself.

The painting’s dimensions struck Kareem as colossal in this small room. It had seemed diminutive in the fair’s seemingly infinite space. After realizing the overwhelming scale of the canvas, Kareem felt the same affection upon seeing the artwork in its magnificence once again. The painting had a solemn, meditative persona, as if it had waited for him patiently in solitude.

Compared to its flat image in the catalog, everything about the artwork seemed amplified: the colors were more vibrant, and the forms more defined and detailed. Happy with his decision to purchase the piece, Kareem went to the bar to get drinks with the director, and then they joined a group of collectors.

As Kareem listened to the engaging talk of a charismatic, older art collector in the group, the director brought a young woman to Kareem’s side and introduced her as the artist of “Untitled IV.” It had never occurred to Kareem that he might meet the painter of the artwork in person. He knew from the thumbnail photo in the catalog that the painter was a young, fair-skinned woman, but he had not given much thought to her.

In a way, the artist had abandoned her physical existence to the painting after its completion, and the artwork had replaced her presence. Now that she, the artist, appeared beside him, the painting seemed to wake from its deep meditation, taking on a new life.

Naturally, Kareem was a little baffled and excited to encounter the artist, the creator of his beloved painting, in person. But the artist seemed to listen to his clumsy praises of her talents with some detachment.

“Glad that you liked the abattoir,” she said to Kareem.

“The abattoir?” Kareem asked.

“The painting,” chimed in the director. “Well, it’s the subject matter. But the paintings are untitled.”

“I wanted to call the series Abattoir. But the director here chose to rename them. I just want you to know that,” the artist told Kareem. “So that you don’t have the wrong impression. Now that you’ve got it.”

Kareem sensed a mysterious tension between the two young women. For the second time, he had found himself in an awkward situation involving the same artwork, despite his good intentions.

The older, knowledgeable collector was intrigued by the conversation. Unlike the puzzled and suspicious Kareem, this collector was all ears, and he seemed to be enjoying the sudden unfolding of a conflict between the artist and the art dealer.

“Is the subject matter an actual abattoir or an idea of it?” the collector asked the artist with a playful and curious tone.

“A real one. Actually, it’s no longer in use,” replied the artist. “It’s in Tenedos, a North Aegean island I visited a couple of years ago. The place has been turned into a restaurant.”

“That’s interesting. How come I don’t recall seeing this piece in the fair?” asked the collector, looking at the director.

The director opened her mouth, but before she could respond, the artist proposed they all go to the painting. The group followed her into the small room. Lined up in front of the painting, they gazed at it in silence, as if it was a window to another world. Kareem anxiously wondered whether this strange scene would affect his ownership of the artwork, or if this was just an ordinary happening in the art world.

For a few moments, the group remained silent, each viewer pondering their own version of an Aegean island. Their imaginations conjured visions of pebbled beaches, the incessant, dizzying Meltemi winds, and rocky, barren terrain covered with thorny, dry bushes, scorched under the furnace of the sun.

“Now it’s sort of a beach club. Tourists party there, after decades of abandonment,” said the artist. “Actually, there is a little jetty in here with a ladder to the sea.” She pointed to a small protrusion over the sea line in the painting. “But I spared the image of all excesses.” Her hand swept across the rock’s surface.

“I think I’ve been to this place,” said the collector. “Never would have guessed the history of the place, though.”

“The name is still the same in Greek, I learned from a brochure,” the artist added.

“You said the subject matter is part of a series of works. Do you have more? Could I see them? By the way,” the collector turned to Kareem, “I have to say, you have an eye for good art.”

Kareem could only stammer a thank you.

“Yes, there are two more pieces from Abattoir in our inventory. They’re in the storeroom. I’ll show you,” said the director, her oblong face displaying an assuring smile.

“You mean ‘Untitled I’ and ‘III,’” said the artist, laughing.

A few more people approached the painting, and the artist engaged in lengthy explanations about her techniques and the ideas behind her work’s style. The crowd grew in the small room, and some people made insightful points when discussing “Untitled IV.” Kareem thought hard but could not come up with a meaningful question or comment. He was not an art critic, nor was he equipped with the technical terms to praise an artwork without sounding trite and banal. But, as Flaubert once wrote, words would never suffice to carry the fullness of the soul.

From then on, Kareem remained quiet and avoided the artist, who seemed entirely oblivious to his presence. She and the collector were absorbed in discussing her works and examining their images on her phone. The artist appeared more relaxed now and even started laughing at the collector’s charming and talkative remarks.

Kareem felt content knowing he had pursued and received his heart’s desire. His admiration for the painting required no explanation, reasoning, or scholarly analysis.

* * *

Later that week, “Untitled IV” was delivered to his home with a kind note showing him how to hang it. Kareem followed the instructions and properly mounted the large painting in his living room. He decided to leave it unframed, allowing the painting to blend seamlessly with the minimalist style of his furniture.

After placing the canvas on the wall behind the sofa, he made himself a cup of coffee and sat in the armchair facing the painting. As he stared at the lower plane, which resembled a dirt road beneath the soaring rock, an unsettling image suddenly came to mind. He envisioned a small flock of piglets, making their way toward the red rectangular structure, their short legs trotting as they bumped into each other.

Quickly, he chased away the disturbing apparition and replaced it with more pleasant images—people dancing, jumping into the sea from a pier. He even imagined a monotonous, dumb club music beat echoing in the background. He decided that, if any visitor to his house ever asked the name of the painting, he would avoid mentioning the abattoir and simply say it was called “Untitled IV.”