S1 E2 The Frame

Release Date: 31 July 2024

Disclaimer: A short story.

Hanging by a thread.

The painting was hanging by a thread. Dangerously. It was a heavy wooden frame, about a foot square. Glass cover. Not the easily crackable microfiber plate, but a sturdy shatterable glass. It was a beautiful painting; of a serene Grecian landscape. A typical painting. Watercolours. Gentle strokes; as if the artist's brush had caressed the landscape and willed it on the paper. The frame was an after thought. An effort to make the painting richer than it appeared to the lay, untrained eye. Those who failed to appreciate the beauty of the art without the accompanying ostentation.

It could do without the frame. At least that's what she thought. It was after all painted on 300 gsm cold pressed 100 percent cotton paper.

But it had to be framed so that it could be hung without damaging the painting and the wall. So a thin black wooden frame was chosen. It had to be wood. Plastic wouldn't cut it. The glossy finish of plastic would reflect the overhead light horribly and potentially take away from the painting. Now, the glass cover does that job. Blinds the viewer when the light hits wrong and ensures that painting is absolutely hidden underneath the glare. What was wrong with 300 gsm cold pressed 100 percent cotton paper. It allowed for beautiful photos to be taken without arching backs and curving necks and bending bodies at odd angles before finally getting frustrated and taking a mind bogglingly horrifying shot that eventually got relegated to a forgotten part of the phone gallery.

But the paper couldn't withstand the weather. A splash of water on the varnished painting could potentially damage the piece. And even varnish could not withstand the elements without utmost care and constant attention. A frame was settled on. The thin black one. With a glass cover. The one with the horrible photo glare.

But of course the wall could not be hammered with a nail to hang the painting. How dare the matte-finish designer wall be damaged by an offending nail. So the painting had to be hung. By two delicate, practically invisible threads, reinforced ones, the kind used in glass installations; from the ceiling, so daintily; exactly 2.54 cm away from the wall, lest the frame leave nasty scratches on the royal waterproofed wall coating. A pale yellow directed LED shone just enough light on the painting. The whole thing had never looked richer before. It allowed the price to be jacked up too. But painting was at a 6 ft height, off the ground, near about level with the eyes of most people, at some point of the painting, usually the lower part. Some stood on their toes to get a good glimpse. Some wore high heels, sharpened to point, enough to create a scratch (worse than the one the frame would leave) if they rested those lethal points on the wall.

Benign as the painting was, the frame was just as malignant, hanging as it was from those two thin, semi-invisible cables. Someone opened the French sliding window. It was on the 15th floor, in the midst of a thunderstorm. An unwise decision was what it was. After taking meticulous care to guard it from the external environment, one foolish spur of the moment decision and a malfunctioning air conditioner was enough for it's downfall. Just a crack would have been fine. It would have ensured sufficient ventilation for their stifling egos. But has anyone ever stopped until it was too late? The window was opened ⅔rds of the way in an effort to fully embrace the gentle breeze. They were not prepared for the gust that followed.

A lamp clattered to the floor. The plug strained and pulled off from the socket, which led to the extinguishing of the primary source of light in the room. There was a silence interspersed by the madly flapping curtains and tail ends of trailing cocktail dresses. This was followed by a series of murmurs of oohs and aahs before a brilliant flash of lighting and reverberating clap of thunder plunged the entire room into darkness. Even electricity couldn't withstand the elements, what was a frame hung by two threads.

The gust made the frame clap against the distempered wall. The sound of destruction was not pleasant. An occasionally squeaky noise if the wood scratched and damaged the smooth surface of the wall, leaving a scar behind. One thread gave up, it was already frayed thanks to the machinations of an unkind soul who has previously graced the viewing room and had made quick, imperceptible changes.