Gazes fell upon her as she took every step toward the table. Her every muscle inched graciously as she walked past the glass panels, walking past every curious passer-by as their focus moves with her, as their focus zooms in on every inch of her presence. Every step she took, she felt as if she was pushing away air. The gazes fell upon her and away from her like satin is to arm, and the tense attention glides past her contour and wraps her tighter from behind. Pad, pad, pad. She's there. She looked up into the one-way glass pane and stared at her reflection. Her hands reached into her pockets and she fumbled about, finally fingers touching a familiar shape. Out came the clipper comb her mother kept for years and friends of hers get fascinated about. Out came the technicolour pins she brought for the show. Out came the rubber bands she needed to hold her crown glory in. Her fingers wrapped themselves around the clipper comb and ran it through a sea of hair, parting the knots and smoothing the strands. All the time, she stared into her reflection's eyes, daring for it to blink or to move. Her hair was done. She picked up the rubber bands and split her hair into teo ponytails, tied it just above her ear, making sure her hair flings itself nicely outward. She found her pins redundant and turned to get her makeup.
As she returned to her open vanity table, she slowly applied the foundation sponge on her cheeks as she took in the gazes that rained upon her. She could feel curiosity. She could feel interest. She could feel excitement. She could feel sceptism. She could feel the vast space of the room, the contrast of textures from acrylic to carpet to the hardness of the chairs. She could feel the sunlight pouring in through the windows and the light pouring in through the glass panels; all turned cold when the aircon disseminated across the floor. Her character emerged, and her mindset morphed. Her serious self was gone, the jester's here.
As the show went on, she laughed and sang to the children, but her head was well aware of the jobs at hand. She acted in front of the kids, knowing she really did not mean what she says. She sat there bouncing on a ball, knowing the gleeful expression was a mask. She wondered, at that moment, how much life was an act. How everyone wears a mask, how people just perceive you to be what you give.
Curtains down. She dropped her smile, she dropped her energy. She walked hastily behind the stage and let her throat sing. Coughs errupted into chains of gasping and she choked some more. Her mask was still on, her costume was still on. But the curtains were down. Did the audience see her gasping and lying on the floor? No. Did any of the audience see the hard work any performer that day did? No.
"The heart is a lonely painter" A Biennale artist said. Indeed. For the work of anyone is untold, and unknown unless people see it for themselves.
As the kids scamper outside and the parents leaving happy and content; the curtains stayed down and the crew remained quiet. They packed up their stuff and leave. The gazes were no longer there. The curiosity, the sceptism, the excitement was all gone. But she could still feel the vast space of the room, the contrast of textures from acrylic to carpet to the hardness of the chairs. She could still feel the sunlight pouring in through the windows and the light pouring in through the glass panels; all turning cold when the aircon disseminate across the floor.
