Persistence Through the Fly’s Eye
Short Story: Giving it all for the art
Today I am going to publish my first short story on this platform.
Though I am more of a visual artist I have written a few shorts before and will re-publish them here after I reworked (for grammar - English is not my native language) and re-formatted them.
I hope you enjoy.
For the past three years, Sam visited the small-town art museum every week. It was solitude time with educational overtones. The working a/c on a hot summer evening was a definite plus as well. Today was no different.
He has been looking forward to the new temporary exhibition from New York City’s MoMa all week. Especially, after reading online in the local news about so-called experts claiming the paintings to be fake, noting subtle differences to the originals. One platform even mentioned visitors missing after visiting the surrealists’ section LOL they probably just wanted to hide from the I.R.S. yeah, sure, whatever Sam grinned and shook his head. Granted, this particular news site was a bit further on the obscure end of things but amusing at times.
Sam continued walking the museum halls and wiped sweat off his forehead when he rounded a corner and bumped into Eddie. He apologized and greeted the museum guard. In a very loose way they were friends, just not very close ones. “Hey, sorry, Eddie, how's it going? It’s quite warm in here today, isn’t it? Got any plans for later?” Eddie, face eerily illuminated by his phone’s screen, waved back and mumbled something noncommittally, before continuing on his round without looking up.
Wow, that phone's extremely bright. Never mind, it’s Eddie’s eyes and brain getting scrambled, not mine.
The exhibition room he entered first was full of weird modern abstract sculptures that he quickly left behind. Next came the impressionists era and more modern paintings. Without any detour he went straight to his favorite genre: early 20th-century cubism and surrealism, tonight with his favorite artwork of them all: The Persistence of Memory by Dali.
Can you believe that it was here on temporary exhibition? How amazing is that? Who would have thought this small town could pull in such a major international artwork?
Years ago he nearly saw the original during a high school trip to the MoMa in New York City. Unfortunately, on the day of their visit all surrealist rooms were closed off. The teachers said it was due to a private event. Students’ rumors ran rampant with a hushed up blood ritual being one of the tamer ones.
Today Sam was finally going to see the original painting. He had read all the books and all the articles about it he could find and, of course, he had a print of it framed in his living room.
Tonight, it was here and it was not closed off.
He smiled and walked on. Just a few more steps and, huh, has the hallway with the modern art always been this long? Must have. Around the corner, left past Edward Hopper look-alikes, then right and—there it was: the surrealist exhibition with The Persistence of Memory.
The painting was surprisingly small for its reputation, but it was simply magnificent. Sam didn't care how big or small it was. He was going to spend every moment he could spare oohing over the painting and soak in every brushstroke, every little detail, while it was in town. He walked straight up to it and greeted it like an old friend.
"Hey there, Persy, how's it goin’?" Yeah, well, he may not have been the most sophisticated person out there, but he more than made up for it with his persistence and enthusiasm.
What I wouldn’t give to touch it—just once. Nope, not going to happen. Sigh. Sure, there was no museum guard in sight and this was not the MoMA, but Sam knew from talking with Eddie that this painting was especially well protected. Instead, he settled for getting his eyes close and studying the details, marveling at the warm sky, all the pocket watches and -
Wait, what was this? Inching closer, he looked at the melted watch in the middle, the one on the resting figure.
Had there been movement? Maybe a fly? Possible, but, no, I must have moved my head. An optical illusion. Sam shook his head, sighed, and took a step back. I must be hallucinating. More sleep and less work, Sam.
Still shaking his head, he took step, back when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw it again.
Movement. In the painting. What the…?
Instead of sitting down on the only bench in the room as he had intended, he stood inches away from the painting. He stared—without blinking. Ten seconds. Thirty. There—the hand. It rotated.
One tiny click.
Smack. Sam hit his forehead. Wake up, Sam. Get a grip. Paintings don’t move. Not even in 2025.
Stepping back while rubbing his eyes, he stumbled into the bench and slumped down.
What was going on?
He looked around to see if anyone else had seen it, but there was no one there. He knew he had seen it. He wasn’t crazy. The hand had moved. But how could that be possible?
Shaking his head, Sam stood and stepped up to the painting. There. The hand was back in its original place.
I knew it! I wasn’t crazy! He laughed out loud. Oops, did anyone hear me? Nope. Still alone. Strange. It was later than his usual visiting time, but still plenty of time before closing.
He shrugged and turned his attention back to the painting. Now that he knew what he was looking for, maybe he would see it again.
The hand did not budge.
None of them did.
But there—the fly on the big watch.
It crawled.
Its wings buzzed faintly.
Forgetting he was in a museum, he reached out with his left index finger and touched the painting’s fly.
White light. Alarm bells. Pain. What’s happening?
Instinctively, Sam tried to pull back his hand.
It was stuck.
Stuck in the fly’s grip.
Blood.
There was blood on his finger, dripping onto—no, melting into—the painting.
Becoming one with it.
“Help!” Sam screamed out loud.
He wiggled harder to free himself from the painting, the fly.
How can a tiny fly be so strong? It shouldn’t have muscles—or malice. Yet it pulled. What is happening?
“Help! Somebody help me, please!”
Sam looked around, panic in his eyes. Why isn’t Eddie here yet? Surely he must have heard the alarm.
Leaning back and planting his feet against the wall, he fought harder to get back his finger.
As did the fly.
Was it buzzing while licking my blood? Sam shook his head vigorously. He must be dreaming.
“Come on, this is MY finger,” he gnarled through gritted teeth.
He was now so close he could almost smell the painting—and, more disturbingly, hear the fly.
What is going on? How am I losing ground? To a fly?
Throwing all caution to the wind, ignoring the alarm bells in his head and in the museum, compelled by the urge to get his finger loose, he closed his eyes and planted his right palm flat on the painting’s figure.
He pushed and pulled with all his strength.
Nothing happened.
Suddenly, everything happened, at once.
The whole room seemed to move. It warped and melted into a bright vortex in the middle of the painting.
With Sam fused to the painting.
——
The alarm bells had stopped.
Everything was quiet.
When Sam finally opened his eyes, there was no more The Persistence of Memory. All walls were gone.
Heat pressed in—thick and surreal.
He wiggled his fingers and sighed with relief. Phew, both hands, all fingers.
He squinted. Bright sun, in a museum? Then looked up—straight into the fly’s compound eyes.
Thousands of receptors reflecting a different Sam—one peering curiously at the painting, another frozen mid-reach, another already inside, barefoot on the warped beach.
All of them trapped.
All of them – him.
Is this buzzing I hearing? Laughter? A chuckle?
“Welcome back, Sam. I needed a bit more red to warm up the painting’s sky. I hope you don’t mind too much sharing a tiny bit more of your blood.”
Sam, listening but unable to move, stared into one of the fly’s eyes—and saw another visitor approaching The Persistence of Memory.
He tried to scream.
No sound.
The fly was alive.
You made it to the end! Thank you.
Dali’s The Persistence of Memory really is one of my all-time favorite artworks. Though I am living now close to New York City I have still not made it to the MoMa. But - years ago in Germany while the MoMa was being renovated they lent a lot of their artworks to the Neue Nationalgalerie in Berlin.
At the time, I lived about four hours away. It couldn’t keep me from visiting Berlin and check out the exhibition: Das MoMa in Berlin. It was marvelous.
It really amazed me how small this wonderful, world-famous painting is. It only measures 24 cm × 33 cm (9.5 in × 13 in). Let that sink in. Not much bigger than a notebook. Amazing, right?
I still remember that we had a few minutes left before before closing so I went straight back to look one more time at The Persistence of Memory. And then I bought this exhibition catalogue to take the painting with me.
