Hiding in plain sight.
Endless performance.
Immortality.
The being that called itself X, whenever it found itself in this neighborhood of the galaxy, had existed in countless forms throughout the centuries. But its current manifestation—a shimmering, translucent humanoid figure with ever-shifting iridescent patterns rippling across its surface—was perhaps its favorite yet.
Certainly better than that regrettable period in 1793 when it had posed as a guillotine in Paris. The experience had been delightful enough while the humans let it stand in a parlor and marveled at its shininess, sharpness, and sheer glory. But everything went south once the Reign-of-Terrorists took it out to the public square and began putting it into use, leading to a crushing existential crisis over its role in history.
X’s current manifestation was also much better than what it had been during that embarrassingly unsuccessful stint in 1508. Back then, it had tried to insert itself into the Sistine Chapel ceiling. Michelangelo spent three weeks trying to paint over it, which tickled it to such a degree, it couldn’t help but ripple and crunch in pain—although the man’s increasingly creative Italian cursing about “unauthorized additions to his masterpiece” amused it thoroughly.
Well. All, things of the past. Every day was a new day, and X was a being well-equipped to live up to that eternal truth.
Presently, the first light of dawn filtered through the towering glass ceiling, casting long, golden streaks across the polished floors. The air still carried the faint chill of night, mingling with the sterile scent of the freshly cleaned Gallery 7 at the Museum of Unpredictable Art. Since X was a sleepless being, it already thrummed with barely contained excitement. The emptiness of the night hours had been pleasantly meditative, yes. But oh, how it craved the spark of the day!
Just a few more hours. Dawn had to transform into morning before the museum opened its doors. Humans were lazy about their opening hours, when it came to institutions like these. That’d been the case at Madame Tussauds’ as well, at least in the 1980s, which was one of the reasons why X had decided to switch to a career as a ghost in a Scottish castle in the 2000s. At a castle, it could keep its own haunting schedule.
However, despite the drawbacks of museum-type locations, there was also an undeniable advantage that they offered over all other types of places on this planet: people came to see stuff, intentionally.
So, just a little more patience. That was all that was required. Soon enough…
Footsteps—of the staff.
Then, of the first guests.
Motionless, X stood in the center of the gallery. Holographic sculptures and interactive installations surrounded it all around. But they paled in comparison to its radiance—
Two visitors entered. X felt the familiar thrill of anticipation, the delicious tension of waiting to be discovered. Would they notice? Would they realize? Or would they, like so many others, simply assume it was another piece in the exhibition?
Because, although X wasn’t exactly collaborating with the curator at the MUA, no one could argue that it wasn’t cooperating. If the expectation for an exhibition was to encounter the unexpected, then, why, an uninvited entity like X was the most on-theme work that a curator could curate without curating.
“Look at this one,” a young woman said, approaching X. “The detail is incredible. The way it catches the light…”
She circled around, studying the subtle variations in X’s form. X preened internally, allowing its patterns to shift just slightly more dramatically than usual.
“I don’t see a placard,” her companion said, frowning as he searched the nearby beams. “Must be part of the new interactive series they’re testing.”
Similar back-and-forth continued for about five minutes: the woman marveling at X’s unusual beauty and her companion continuously regurgitating the possible technological explanations he’d come across in the museum brochure, a documentary, or an article.
X suppressed a laugh. The way the man religiously maintained his composure and throttled his curiosity—it was hilarious. Ah, most humans were so wonderfully predictable in their assumptions. They’d rather believe in cutting-edge technology than acknowledge the extraordinary reality before them. It had been the same in every era—whether posing as a marble statue in ancient Rome or a mechanical automaton in Victorian London. (Both had been fun gigs. But the problem of being a marble statue was that people passed you by without paying you much attention, after the first few months or so. Also, birds tended to poop all over you. Meanwhile, as a mechanical automaton, you had to follow certain instructions, otherwise the believability factor went poof in the air. That got quite tiring, because—same instructions, same reactions. And if you’ve been around for as long as X, you simply don’t have the time to spend on tiring, same-old-same-old activities.)
The woman reached out, her hand hovering just inches from X’s surface. “Can we touch the exhibits in this gallery?”
Her companion shrugged. “There’s no ‘Do Not Touch’ sign.”
X waited until her fingertips were almost grazing its skin before allowing itself to move, turning its head ever so slightly to meet her gaze. The woman jerked back with a startled gasp.
Oh, X liked this woman a lot more than the man.
“Did you see that?” she whispered. “It moved!”
“Probably motion-activated,” her companion said, though he took a step back. “The tech they have nowadays…”
X began to slowly raise one arm, its movements fluid and deliberate. The couple retreated further, their expressions a delightful mixture of wonder and uncertainty. This was the moment X lived for—the exquisite balance between revelation and concealment, between being seen and remaining unknowable.
“I don’t think that’s an installation,” the woman said softly, looking around.
Indeed, based on the even distances between the other installations, it was logical to surmise that X was an object out of place; X was the only anomaly in the pattern of uniform distances. Funny how the curator had focused so much on the attributes contained within the physical boundaries of each installation that he’d completely overlooked the in-between—as if the very fabric of the universe connecting the exhibits weren’t part of his curation. The man should be profusely thanking X, because now, due to its presence, these two visitors would attach additional, actually-not-intended meanings to the exhibition. They said it’s the Museum of Unpredictable Art, and so it was! Even in terms of the layout!
Starting with those sentences, the being that called itself X continued to imagine the positively delirious flood of social media posts and blog entries that would soon infest the interwebs.
POV: The Art Starts Watching You Back #hauntedmuseum.
News flash: Unidentified Flashy Object, possibly identified.
Museum Guard: “It’s Not On My Inventory List” | Visitors: “But It WINKED at Us.”
X took a step forward, its form rippling with patterns of deep silver and gold. The woman got pale. The man got blue—an utterly unnatural color for a human.
The couple hurried toward the exit, throwing glances over their shoulders until they disappeared around the corner.
X giggled softly—a bit forlornly. Its luminous patterns dimmed for a fraction of a second.
Bummer. It had thought that the woman might stick around longer. But humans were herd creatures, and more skittish than curious…
Never mind that. Every day was a new day, and every minute was a new minute. X brightened again. Part of the delight of observing the human species was that very skittishness. A lot of the time, they were painfully predictable, but then they acted unpredictably at the most unexpected moments—skittishness was one of the factors that contributed to that charming nature.
Thusly alone again, X resumed its original posture. Soon, another group would enter, and the performance would begin anew. It had perfected this art over millennia—the art of being both hidden and exposed, of existing in plain sight while maintaining its mystery. Be it as a guillotine or as a tiny part of a chapel ceiling, as a castle ghost or as a wax figure, it had embodied unknowability in one way or another by crossing itself out and redrawing itself across centuries, each form like a new signature on history’s canvas.
The museum’s cameras watched silently from above.
Go ahead, fellows, thought X. Watch on. Watch ahead. You soulless ones aren’t the ones I am here for.
Therefore, the cameras recorded nothing but subtle distortions in the air where X stood. In fact, even the security guards who physically patrolled the area didn’t notice a thing. Since they did have souls, sometimes X wondered what their reactions might be upon finding that there was an unauthorized installation within their territory of tomfoolery. However, exhibiting itself in front of them would be detrimental to its endeavors in the long run.
Thus, X remained the variable that refused to be solved in the equation that was museum security. Only the visitors saw what X chose to let them see. Even then, very few visitors believed their own eyes, and even fewer visitors reported their experiences to the museum staff, thereby multiplying the mystique exponentially.
It was a peculiar kind of art, X reflected, to be simultaneously exhibitionistic and enigmatic; to crave observation while remaining unknowable. But that tension was what made its existence meaningful; what made the dance between visibility and invisibility eternal.
A herd of footsteps entered the museum. X could hear the noise coming from the first floor, all the way up here in this gallery. X felt its patterns brighten in anticipation.
How erratic, the cacophony! How exciting! How Awake!
Into the gallery, the generators of the footsteps flooded—a school group; young minds still open to possibilities their teachers had long since dismissed. X shifted its weight slightly, preparing for another show.
After all, what good was immortality if you couldn’t have a little fun with it?