Opening of the Exhibition

Vibrant colors cover the white walls. The paintings are overwhelming--- grids of lines and dots.

For the opening gala, the patrons are dressed in black. The curator moves from one group to another, wearing a bright blue suit, white shirt, purple tie. Waiters in white serve sparkling wine in glasses.

"The genius of Vorkowsky," a gentleman with a well-trimmed beard says, "the hyper spectral implications of her color theory are most evident in this latest series."

Between the colors, other colors vibrate, a regular rhythmic pulsation not unlike the onset of a migraine. I was warned of this. Vorkowsy's paintings are an assault on the senses. Some report nausea, others a slight unease. There are special glasses for the sensitive. There are paramedics on call, just in case.

It is said she mixes her own colors, pigments unknown on earth. These are colors out of space, disturbingly familiar yet alien. colors that would look different under the light of a different sun.

"Where is the artist?" someone asks the curator. "I would very much like to meet her."

"Alas, she could not be here," the curator says. "There was a problem with her flight."

I feel an urge to take up knitting, twist the colors of Vorkowsky into strings around my fingers, the fabric of the universe, unravelling.