Life in Paintings

Chapter 28 - Imaginary View of the Grande Galerie in the Louvre in Ruins

Chapter 28 - Imaginary View of the Grande Galerie in the Louvre in Ruins

I wake up in rumbles. When I try to get up on my feet the ground moves under me. I'm lying down on a pile of pebbles and dust and broken pieces of wood.

Finally I manage to sit up and take in my surroundings.

It looks like someone dropped a bomb on a Greek building. It's just a big hallway of broken statues and shaky pillars.

I'm not the only one here. The place is crawling with people. The way people are dressesd is a little strange though. Some look like they're from a Greek painting and others kinda look like they're from Gustave's time.

Two women are fussing around a makeshift stove. I head in their direction.

All of this, it feel like I'm in a street for homeless people, but in a post-apocalyptic Greek city.

As I get closer to the two women, I try to slow my pace and look as non-menacing as possible. "I'm sorry," I say and they both look at me a little reluctantly. "Where are we? What is this place?"

"Well, the Louvre of course," one of them tells me.

I blink slowly. "What? How did it become like this?" This can't be the Louvre. Was it ever bombed? I can't remember. I don't think so.

The lady shrugs and keeps moving the food she's cooking around. "People just... stopped caring. This is what happens when people don't care anymore. You think that hate and bigotry is the worse thing to bring into this world, but they're actually easier to fight against, they are a clear and obvious menace. Indifference is so much worse. Nothing happens and no one cares."

So people stopped caring and the Louvre turned into ruins. I never went to the Louvre. I don't know if this is really it.

I might not have liked art enough to burn a museum, but it was out of spite and it was in some small inconsequential place. I don't think I could ever have the heart to destroy a place like this.

There's a young boy sitting down on the ruins, and he's got a pad with sheets on it. I leave the women be and go to sit beside him. "What are you doing?"

He doesn't even look up at me. "Drawing."

"There's not much to draw."

"Why? Because it's not perfect and pretty anymore? Isn't that even better?"

I don't answer him. I don't actually know to be honest.

I let the boy draw and start looking around, trying to find the remnants of famous artworks, artwork Gustave might have copied during his studies.

I walk and think about indifference. I've been indifferent most of my life. I think about Gustave, who is passionate about so many things, but mostly art. He has a fire inside of him. I think it's one of the things that draw me the most to him. That fire inside of him, it's striking. He's talked about me like I was his sun once, but the truth is, he's the one that shines.

If I'm being completely honest, I've kind of always felt dead inside. Nothing brought me undiluted joy. Nothing's ever truly excited me.

How pathetic...

Unfortunately for me I don't have time to dwell too much on these thoughts because suddenly I hear a rumble and people screaming to watch out and I just have the time to lift my eyes and see the gigantic piece of concrete fall on me.