Gemotions

A bead of sweat trickled down Mateo’s temple. The curator, Mr. Henderson, was visibly flustered. “We acquired it… through a third party. We had no idea.” Mateo straightened his shoulders, a grin threatening to break through his careful composure. He had hoped for some sort of recognition.

He examined the installation: a collection of twisted metal sculptures, entitled “Echoes.” The lighting was perfect, emphasizing the shadows and negative space. The artist didn't need to say a word. He looked at the room, full of people. They saw it.

He pushed his hands deep into his pockets. He let a small, private laugh slip out. All of his work, all of the years of toil, were now on display. It was a good day.