Ta Voix

Oliver stared at the blank page on his laptop. It had been this way for a few hours now. Yesterday it hadn’t been so blank. In fact, yesterday Oliver had written a paragraph, and parts of that paragraph were quite good. One part might have even been called exceptional.

But that was yesterday. The Oliver of today took one read through this paragraph and subsequently deleted it. Undid it. Tossed it into the digital trash heap. It’s a wonder, thought Oliver that I can even call myself a writer, with so little writing. As he thought this, he imagined what people might think of him if they could hear his thoughts. It’s an awful stereotype that artists must be tortured. But nobody could hear him, and he was thankful for that. If I received credit for trying, I’d be a household name. And so, try he did, and fail he did. Not even the universe pitied him.

After sitting in front of his laptop all day and getting nowhere slowly, it occurred to Oliver that he had earned a drink. He didn’t do this every time he had an unsuccessful day of writing, and he wasn’t an alcoholic either. At least no more than the average person is. It just came to him as he started making his dinner, in a phrase as old as alcohol itself, Shit. I could do with a drink. A middling-sized bottle of whiskey later, he was ready for bed. He stumbled to his single bed, repeating the same words out loud; ‘Last flight to Dreamland.’ He sat on the edge of his bed now, undressing. ‘Last flight to Dreamland.’ And now he was face down into his pillow, producing one final, muffled, ‘Last flight to Dreamland.’

This unusual phrase was the title of the book he was trying to write. Before he fell into a drunken sleep, Oliver had one last thought:

What an awful title.

When he awoke, he was not in a place he recognised. When Oliver looked around him, he was shocked to his core. ‘Oh no,’ he said to himself, convinced that he had either died in his sleep or that he had reached a whole new level of drunkenness. Looking around all he saw was white, almost like a marble texture on the walls, ceiling and furniture. And seated on a large white bench, Oliver looked at the doorway to see a person.

‘Hello, Oliver,’ the person called from the doorway.

Not knowing what to make of this situation Oliver replied ‘Hello.’ A typically bold response from a typically bold man. ‘Who might you be?’

The person walked to the centre of the room and said, ‘I am The Guide.’

Oliver squinted. Somehow this individual was indescribable. It was near impossible to make out any of the facial features of the ‘Guide’ as nothing seemed cemented. If you looked at the Guide, then away, and back to them again, you might even believe that they had a different face entirely. Except you couldn’t tell why. It was as if Oliver was looking at and forgetting the face of this person at the same time.

‘The Guide to what exactly?’

‘The Guide to this place,’ replied the stranger.

Oliver did not appreciate the obscure tone of this person, nor did he like the fact that they seemed to be unintelligible to the human eye. ‘And what might this place be?’ He continued.

‘Follow me, Oliver,’ said the Guide. ‘I have much to show you.’

Oliver found himself walking several steps behind the Guide, through a large room that featured innumerable paintings, sculptures, drawings, blueprints, sheet music and other unrecognisable pieces of art. They were on the walls, in display cases, even hanging from the ceiling. The whole place looked like an incredible collage of man-made projects. Oliver wondered what it all meant, and then realised he should probably be paying attention to the elusive Guide.

‘Oliver, welcome to the No Man’s Gallery.’

‘No Man’s Gallery?’ Oliver repeated, ‘What’s that supposed to be?’

‘Have you ever wondered what Nirvana’s next album would have sounded like, if Kurt Cobain never died? Or what about Stanley Kubrick’s next film? What if Kafka or Hemingway were able to finish their novels before their death? What about Capote, Marlowe or David Foster Wallace? What of Michelangelo’s unfinished paintings and sculptures? What of the artists who never even began an artistic endeavour, out of fear or lack of skill? The artists struck by an artistic epiphany, only to put their ideas on hold, eternally. And who could forget the artists that never were, due to poverty, lack of education, or absence of resources; the women whose artistry was held back by men, the minorities whose art was obscured by majorities. All these people, and all the things that they shall never create, are displayed here, in the No Man’s Gallery.’

‘Well this is the most elaborate dream that I’ve had in a long while,’ said Oliver.

‘Look around,’ spoke the guide, ‘I promise that you’ll find something worth your time.’

The two of them were walking through this hall, and Oliver now noticed that the hall they were in seemed to stretch on forever. This made sense. An unreasonably large space would be needed to fit all of the art that doesn’t exist. Oliver turned his attention back to the Guide.

‘So how was Nirvana’s next album?’

‘Quite good, really.’ replied the Guide.

‘That’s good then. Never really been into their stuff.’

The Guide looked at Oliver, ‘Do you want to know what Kafka would go on to write?’

‘Oh, no thanks,’ he replied, looking back at the Guide’s imperceptible excuse for a face. ‘I suppose some things are better left to the imagination.’

‘So, you won’t be wanting to hear about Jon Q. Tuckerton’s work?’ the Guide inquired.

Oliver frowned at the name. ‘Who is Jon Q. Tuckerton?’

The Guide let out a little laugh, the first that Oliver had heard. ‘Jon Q. Tuckerton is the best author you will never know.’

Certain conversations permit moments of silence. This is one of those conversations, and one of those silent moments.

‘Ah. Here we are,’ the Guide said, gesturing to a framed piece on the wall. ‘I wanted to show you this.’

Oliver turned and looked at the most beautiful painting he had seen in his life. It was so striking in its boldness, the hues and shades combining to create a singular image of such raw emotional intensity that it brought a tear to Oliver’s eye. Okay, he thought, there is no way I could dream this.

‘What are you showing me?’ Oliver said, wiping the tears from his eyes.

‘This is Life and His Friends, a painting by Saurandhri Vaiker, a young woman from India. It is the most revered piece of visual art on Earth. Or at least it would have been if Saurandhri had gotten the proper education and art lessons that she wanted so dearly. Instead it is here, in the Gallery.’ The Guide lowered his head.

‘But it isn’t too late for her to still create this, surely?’ said Oliver. ‘People need to see this, this is important. So if we could get this woman the things she needs then maybe she could still—‘

‘Oliver, if something is in the Gallery, it is because it will never exist. Saurandhri Vaiker is dead.’

Oliver felt a sinking feeling in his stomach and crouched down to the floor. He sat, staring up at Life and His Friends. He thought for a moment about the implications of this space. If something is here, it is because it doesn’t exist. And never will.

‘Guide, are you able to search for things in this place? If I gave you a name could you find something for me?’

The Guide turned towards Oliver. ‘I know of every single piece in the Gallery. Tell me what you are looking for and I shall find it; if it is here to be found.’

Oliver made his way back to his feet. ‘Can you find a novel called Last Flight to Dreamland?’

‘Follow me,’ the Guide said, walking away.

After a long walk, they stopped in front of a display case which contained a book. It was titled Last Flight to Dreamland by Oliver Tulst.

‘Huh. So, I never finish it.’ He felt like asking for an instant way out of this horrid place but didn’t want to seem rude. He was a guest after all.

‘Finish it?’ said the Guide, ‘You never even begin it. Not properly.’

Oliver considered running from this obscure man and this impossible space but knew it was an immature way to react to his own incompetence.

The Guide continued, ‘But that is not always a negative thing. There are many works in this gallery that are here because something else was made in their place. Maybe there is something you shall create instead of this book, something better, something to make you forget that this one ever existed. Because it doesn’t.’

Oliver’s face lit up. ‘What do I write then?’

‘That is out of my jurisdiction. I am merely the keeper of non-existence. Existence is another thing. The only way to find out is to see for yourself.’

Oliver paused his excitement and took another long look at this unidentifiable person and asked, ‘Who are you really?’

The Guide looked back at Oliver and said, ‘I would give you my name, but it doesn’t exist.’

Oliver stared at the ceiling of his bedroom. He was awake now. Maybe he had always been awake. It was hard to tell. He noticed that there was something sitting in his mind, an idea that he previously didn’t have, and it was brilliant. He got up too quickly and made himself dizzy, but he powered through the hangover, having a shower and some breakfast. When he was ready, he sat down in front of his laptop and opened a new, blank document. This is the one, he thought, this will exist. And so, he typed the title of his new book.

No Man’s Gallery.