I Am The Local Atheist (3 page)

Her fingernails tapped against the glass. “And after the death
of that girl… well, I heard that they became even stricter than
before demanding absolute obedience.” Her feet shuffled slightly
and I’m sure she made attempts at moving backwards, away from me.
“It’s just so sad that she was from
your
church…” Complete and utter
disassociation with her ‘other’ church, like it was so tainted now
that it was rubbing off on her. “Do you know anything about
that?”

“
No. No, nothing.” I made to laugh but only managed a small
gasp accompanied by a shrug. “Been out of contact with everyone.
Over a year now. Y’ know.”

Now
she looked sympathetic. “Yeah.
Yeah, I know.” …and sorry.

“
Only found out about it… from what I read in the
papers.”

“
Right. I guess so. Well, I’m glad you came. It’s good to see
you – and it was so good to see your mother yesterday too. She’s so
nice. She seems to be coping really well.”

Actually, mum
had started drinking (again) the same day that I had ‘defiled’ the
church so ‘appallingly’ (as the papers had put it). But still, I
guess she is coping well – it gets her through the day. “Yeah,
mum’s doing fine.”

She took a
quick swig of her wine. “Hey! I want you to meet some friends of
mine from City Light Church.”

So Lisa had
deserted our old and crusty church and gone for something lighter
and younger? A new church that was more fun?

Before she had
a chance to pull them over to her, Lisa turned back to me and said
“actually! My friend Claire is singing at the Sunday morning
service. I left a note with your mum to invite you in case we
didn’t catch up tonight. I left my details with her as well – you
should definitely get a cellphone David, it would be so much easier
for us to keep in touch.”

I fingered the
phone in my pocket wondering why it had taken her this long to
finally get back in touch in the first place.

“
They really aren’t as evil as you think.”

I hate cellphones with a passion, but I didn’t have the guts
to tell her that I had finally caved in some time ago when my own
flatmates purposely went out of their way to make me feel left
out
because
I
didn’t have a cellphone. It was a cruel joke that had lasted an
entire month of both Tinsdale and Martin giving me shit because
they couldn’t get in touch with me and then purposely excluding me
from their conversations. It was easy to ignore for a while, but it
became so overt that it just ground on my nerves to a point where I
gave in just to satisfy their own sick perversion. I was surprised
Mum hadn’t given her my number.

“
Well anyway, you should definitely come along on Sunday –
Claire’s got the most amazing voice, and if her singing doesn’t
bring you back to the church then I don’t know what
will.”

What a bitch.
“Yeah, I’ll definitely
think about it.”

She looked at
me dubiously. “I know what that means, David.”

“
I’ve gotten used to sleeping in on Sundays.”

“
God hasn’t forsaken you.”

I felt like
taking a swing and knocking her to the ground. Who the fuck was she
to preach to me? “Why’d you invite me here?”

She smiled –
uneasily. “I missed you.”

Bullshit!
A year and a half without
any contact, without a single word and here you are saying you
missed me. Yeah right.

“
And plus, I thought we could make fun of the paintings, y’
know, like we used to.”

The host was
clanging a wine glass again.

“…
the work of a new artist who has settled in this city of ours
just over two years ago all the way from the other end of the
country, to begin earnest studies here at the Invercargill
Polytechnic. Naturally, this has given her enough time to soak up
the lifestyle, the sights, the people, their generous and selfless
character – and all of this she has poured into her artwork to give
it a sense of colour and design not seen around here before. But a
voice that cries out in the wild without recognition in one town,
may just be the voice that is heard above all others in another. To
encourage her, will you please welcome Miss Callasandra
Schuar.”

A young woman
with dark tousled hair and a solid, but not large – ‘cushiony’ as
an old friend would say – body stepped up in front of the ribbon
that led to her exhibition with an assured smile on her face.

“
Thank you so much for coming.” She pulled her hair away from
her eyes with a single finger. “First I guess I should thank the
Polytech for supporting me as a student and my awesome tutor who
suggested this exhibition, but also the curator who agreed to it.
It’s hard when you are an artist working on your own, but with the
constant collaborating between the Polytech and the gallery that I
hear so much about, I couldn’t help but think what an awesome
opportunity that would be to present these new works. Having an
exhibition has been made so much easier!

“
This was not the case in my hometown of Auckland, where
sometimes it really did feel like I was a voice crying out in the
wild: unheard and unappreciated. But here in Invercargill I never
truly felt like I was alone. But with that sense of support I also
found something else that seemed to inspire more detail in these
paintings, and you may recognise aspects of your own town here in
these works. I hope you do, but also appreciate how they are
depicted.

“
Thanks again, to the gallery,” the curator and host nodded
politely, “my fellow students,” a set of starving faces lifted
their heads from the snack tables momentarily “my tutors, and all
of you art enthusiasts that have turned up here tonight. Thank
you.”

She nodded
some more and stepped to the side as the crowd gave a round of
applause and the host stepped up with a pair of scissors offering
them to Callasandra to cut the ribbon. She took them, smiled as
some photos were taken and proceeded to cut the ribbon that would
open the door to the rest of her life… as they say.

I waited for
the crowd to disperse. Lisa managed to slip back into her own group
of friends without saying anything more to me. I left my corner and
began weaving my way through some of the bodies to have a look at
the work that hung on the far wall.

There were
some smug looking people on one side and then some others with
their hands over their mouths on the other – some of these were
turning away in disgust, others were wide eyed and trying not to
laugh. What could be in those paintings that were dividing the room
before me? What would they represent to me, a disillusioned young
man trying to escape his past? Trying desperately to forget
everything that had caused him such isolation in the world?

I walked up to
the first painting as though it was some kind of monolith waiting
to transport me into another world where I could evolve into a
higher state of being and not care for the banalities of everyday
life; something that I had longed for for so long but had somehow
eluded me here on earth. But the painting remained as an
impenetrable reminder of the world that I did live in and that had
cruelly cast out the knowledge of Jesus that I had once known.

I didn’t like it. There was something nasty that was trying to
reach out from its stark black background and engulf the viewer. It
scared me so I moved to the next only to find vicious images
suggesting anger and frustration directed quite clearly at a
religious target. As I moved from painting to painting, I started
feeling a deep and penetrating reminder of what I had done, yet
there wasn’t a single painting that I could point to and say
this is it, this is the statement that the artist
is trying to make – about me
. The images
were so obviously making a statement towards an event that, by the
looks on the faces, most of the audience knew about, but no one
could possibly tell from one single picture that hung on the walls;
but stepping back and viewing them all as a whole meant that a much
larger and much more damning insight had been painted by the
artist, an insight that many were beginning to take exception
to.

And it was an
insight that I was starting to feel extremely uncomfortable with. I
shuffled backwards, trying to disappear into a corner again,
hanging my head as low as possible without looking suspiciously
guilty.

Murmuring
began to dominate the air and some strong opinions were being
banded about. There was an attempt at bringing some order when a
man spoke up over the crowd saying, “Well, these pictures are
certainly a clear indication of how Miss. Schuar was treated by her
previous city. Thank the Lord that she found her way here.”

There was some
agreement that went a long way to calming the air, until a woman
with an obvious chip on her shoulder said “No! No, no, no! I
remember her saying quite clearly that these paintings are about
her experiences in Invercargill.”

“
Calm down Mrs. Stewart. I’m sure Miss. Schuar has had good
reason for painting what she has painted.”

“
Well, then lets get the girl over here explaining it so that
everyone can understand.”

Callasandra
walked up to them. “Look, I’m really sorry that it offends you but
I have said all that I have wanted to say. My art speaks for
itself.”

“
Your art speaks for you young lady. Do not think that you can
divorce yourself from it so easily. It is obvious that you have no
desire to respect the town that has given you such a helping hand.
All you can do is fling mud back into its face.”

“
No, that’s not true.”

“
Are these paintings about your old town or the one you live in
now?”

“
This one.”

“
Then you have done nothing short of stabbing us in the
back.”

“
It’s not like that…”

“
Then tell us what it is like!”

A man from the
side of the room that wasn’t doing any attacking decided to stand
up for Callasandra. “I think the paintings are courageous! They
show an artist stepping up to the plate and having her say.”

Mrs. Stewart
shot him a piercing stare. “You would you heathen!”

Another woman
stepped forward. “Hold on a minute, Mrs Stewart. I don’t appreciate
you using the term ‘heathen’ to describe someone just because they
are non-Christian. It is just as reprehensible as these paintings
here, and we don’t need to lower ourselves to those standards.
We’re supposed to be supporting each other, but Miss. Schuar is
obviously trying to be a critic just for the sake of being critical
as though that’s an excuse to paint some second rate pictures
without any real understanding of what actually happened and why.
So in that respect Mrs. Stewart, I concur with you – she is just
flinging mud! Dirty and insincere!”

Callasandra
was visibly shaken by these words.

Mr. Brunner
continued his attempts at mediating. “I don’t think that this is
the place and time for such an argument. If any of us have anything
further to say, then we should leave it to private communication so
that the exhibition can continue on as it was meant by the
curators.” He smiled at the party members; they nervously smiled
back, leaning towards a table and picking at the remains of a bunch
of grapes that the students had carelessly left uneaten.

But Mrs.
Stewart wasn’t put off her rant. “Yes, yes; private communication
Mr. Brunner. That solves everything doesn’t it? No need for group
discussions, no need to defend your works out in the open; just
leave it to private communication where no one but the recipients
learn anything. Meanwhile, other artists go forth destroying all
that is good and pure in the world.”

I found it
difficult to understand where her concept of all that is ‘good and
pure’ came from. Nothing had been so good or pure since we had left
the Garden of Eden.

Mr. Brunner
didn’t look too happy with her statement either, but he spoke
nothing of it, instead looking at Callasandra and trying to be
sympathetic to her cause. “I understand sometimes Miss. Schuar that
there are times when you need to speak out, but I wonder if it was
necessary to do it so early in your career. Can you not think about
those also who you might be effecting?”

The artist
looked devastated. “Can’t you all understand that this is me
expressing myself? It’s not just a statement of dislike, or
criticism; it’s also me putting onto a canvas something that I feel
strongly about. Am I supposed to keep those feeling bottled up
inside?”

Mr. Brunner
interceded for a moment. “I think its best that we take into
account the fact that this art gallery has decided to give you a
chance to display your work for the very first time but what you
have chosen to display will have an impact on not just your
reputation, but their reputation as well.”

This just gave
more ammunition to Mrs. Stewart. “It is nothing short of
unpatriotic.” There was solid agreement from a section of the crowd
surrounding her. “You live in a community that chooses to support
each other and to be accepting of everybody’s differences, but
here, you have made a horrible mistake in choosing to attack those
who choose to support you.”

“
I haven’t attacked anybody who has supported me.”

“
This town supports you! How do you know there aren’t people in
this audience who were involved in what you are trying to depict?
How do you know that this person here,” – her swinging arm cut an
arc too close for comfort – “or that person there isn’t going to be
adversely affected by these pathetic excuses for
paintings?”