It was a simple but clever display, Marsha thought. A dozen sculptures, all hollow, made of cloth and glue. Each looked like it was fabric draped over a famous sculpture – the kind of works the museum could never dream of housing.
It was a popular display too. People enjoyed guessing which sculpture was meant to be underneath. Marsha’s favourite guess was from the middle aged man who insisted to his teenage daughter that the outline of Rodin’s ‘The Thinker’ was one of those Ronald McDonald sculptures they used to put on benches.
There was concern about damage from the public. Being hollow, the sculptures were fragile and very light. They were also unsteady: the artist gave them uneven bases, where the fabric did not quite reach the ground. This let the audience see that there was nothing underneath, but meant that some were a little wobbly.
Marsha was locking up that night. She collected her purse from the office, then walked through the gallery to the exit. She held her keys in her hand – Marsha’s manager already locked the doors an hour ago when she turned the main lights out. Marsha had stayed behind to count the till and close up the gift shop. In the dim light from the front door and the exit signs, walking through the room of draped figures felt like passing a ballroom of frozen ghosts.
Entering the room, Marsha felt something was wrong.
Halfway through, she realised what the problem was.
She continued at the same pace, trying not to let any outward signs show. She forced herself to hum, rather than hyperventilate or cry out.
Trembling, she unlocked the front door, looking at her reflection to see if anything approached her from behind. Once she was outside and the door was locked again, Marsha bent down and pretended to tie up a zippered boot.
There were now 13 sculptures – one more than there should be. And from her low vantage point, Marsha could see there was nothing under any of them. Someone must have snuck in their own work, she deduced.
Now that she knew it wasn’t an intruder hiding under a sheet, Marsha stood up and looked more carefully. She had to press her face against the glass, cupping her hands around her face to block out the streetlights.
Scanning the familiar shapes, Marsha frowned. It was obvious immediately, because it was so plain. Slightly shorter than the others, it was an outline of a person standing straight, with their arms at their sides. A less-skilled copycat, then. Not the artist adding a late contribution.
Marsha got her phone out of her purse to take a photo. Looking through the screen, she gasped. It looked closer.
Looking up from the phone, she was certain it was. The sculpture was now placed at the edge of the entry carpet.
Marsha took one step back. The figure took one step forward.
Marsha ran, and did not look back to see if it followed.
The next morning there were twelve sculptures again, and Marsha did not offer to lock up for the duration of the exhibition.
Sketched Text 