Daniel stood awkwardly in the gallery. He wasn’t looking forward to this evening. In a sense, he had been waiting for it his whole life, but now that it had arrived, he felt ill. He had spent an exhausting afternoon installing his paintings, but now they seemed to wilt among the ultra-realistic, ornate landscapes or elaborate bowls of fruit exhibited by other artists. There were even uncanny facsimiles of homeless people, drawing attention to social issues. Daniel’s abstract slashes of paint seemed as complex as finger painting in comparison.
                 He had completed a circuit of the exhibition already, feeling increasingly intimidated as guests filtered in wearing vintage dresses and sharp shoes. He had never seen so many sunglasses aloofly worn as night fell. Daniel had spent a moment observing an interesting sculpture mounted on the wall beside his own work, before realising it was the thermostat. He turned his back to it and leant against the wall, hoping no one had noticed his plebeian error. He ran a hand through his limp hair, with an uncomfortable feeling of sweat gathering at his sleeves and neck. There was a loud beep by his ear, where he had hit something on the thermostat, drawing attention his way. His evening was excruciating already, and it had barely begun.
                 He was still wound up by an argument with the gallery owner over pricing. Daniel felt awkward discussing money. In his defence, he had never had any of it. He had spent the past month failing to put a value on his paintings, forcing the gallery owner to come down that afternoon and demand he decided.
                 ‘Well, how much did the materials cost you?’ she cried, exasperated. Daniel shrugged, unable to think of an answer. He hadn’t exactly used every dribble of acrylic paint he owned on just one canvas. He tried to buy some time with a protracted umm… while percentages scuttled around his conscious. The owner threw her arms up in the air and walked away. ‘Fine,’ she called over her shoulder, as though dispensing some terrible punishment, ‘each canvas is a hundred pounds. The gallery takes forty per cent.’
                 Daniel frowned. A hundred pounds seemed so much. The high price would put people off buying. But then, he reminded himself, it wasn’t about buying, it was about the honour of having his work shown in a public gallery. But even that joy had trickled away by the time the day arrived. Daniel had driven himself crazy over the standard of his work. He had already ruined his favourite piece by incessantly adding “final touches” until it was unrecognisable from the painting that had first caught the gallery owner’s eye. But somehow he gathered his courage, grabbed four canvasses, and made his way to the gallery to prepare for the event.
                 He put his hand to one cheek, feeling how flushed it was. He must have looked a blotchy red state. Everyone else was so fashionably dishevelled, supping wine while making erudite witticisms. His rivals mingled with the patrons, less artists than sales people. They stood proudly by the canvasses and poured elaborate pitches about each piece of work, their influences and originality, what the piece was trying to say, what their critics had said, how they were expected to go on to great things, how they were significant people. Daniel couldn’t do that. He hovered in his corner of the gallery, terrified that he would be forced to claim ownership of his paintings, or made to explain his vision. He tried to disappear, but his excessive height and unstudied scruffiness acted like a beacon, drawing dismissive glances from the room. Rothko, he told himself, if they ask you anything, just say Rothko.
                 Daniel didn’t know much about art. He was self-taught, a fact that hadn’t seemed important until he encountered the other artists, who expressed horror at his lack of education. They said he wasn’t able to understand his medium, and Daniel, confidence creased, almost believed them. But even Daniel knew that the exhibition was a mess. It was too small a space, for one, stuffed in a room on the top floor of an old warehouse. The artists had arrived early to put up as many sellable works as they could fit. Faced with their greedy territorialism, Daniel was left with a corner near the window. There he hung his paintings, one on top of the other on each wall. He quite liked the effect, even if it meant that the canvasses were either too high or too low for people to get a good look at, not that he thought anyone would bother.
                 The gallery owner glanced towards him and nodded, fanning herself with the gallery literature. She was speaking with a stranger who had shaved only the top of his head. Daniel offered her a small smile in acknowledgement, but was grateful she didn’t approach him. He could smell his clothes now, seeped in sweat. He grabbed a glass of white wine from the waiter’s tray as it passed, and gulped it down.
                 While the room continued to fill with people, the temperature seemed to rise steadily. Furs were stripped and charity shop blazers removed, and eventually the room was participating in a collective striptease. Slowly, the empty spaces were filled, even those around Daniel and his paintings. Daniel, self-conscious about his perceived odour, tried to keep his head down as necks stretched and backs bent to take in the details of his work. Rothko Rothko Rothko, he reminded himself, looking around the room for the drinks tray, to no avail. The second the glasses were refilled, they were being snatched by thirsty guests.
                 A grey-haired man observed the artwork for a while, and then stood next to Daniel. He was wearing a suit with an obscenely-buttoned shirt and tie loosened. ‘These your paintings?’ he asked. Daniel nodded gingerly. The man smiled. ‘They’re very interesting,’ he said, ‘sort of like the stuff Rothko does.’
                 Daniel nodded, grateful for the sentiment, but annoyed that his point of reference had been snatched from him.
                 ‘I think it’s interesting,’ the man continued, ‘how you use, is it, gloss paint? The streaks around the edges. Like the canvasses aren’t dry yet.’
                 ‘What do you mean?’ Daniel asked, confused. The man pointed to one of the lower paintings, and Daniel crouched down to see for himself, then gently touched a spot at the edge. It left a black smudge on his finger. The paint was wet. ‘I think it’s the heat,’ he said with a furrowed brow, ‘I think the pictures are melting.’
                 There was an increased murmur around the room as the others seemed to notice. ‘I’m not surprised,’ the man said, ‘it’s like the Tropics in here. Do these windows open?’ Daniel shook his head.
                 There was a cry from the other side of the room as a lady in a mink vest fell to the floor, succumbing to the heat. A circle formed her as one man lifted and carried her out of the room. Daniel chewed a fingernail and watched the patrons and artists drop their facades to flutter their hands in panic.
                 As the muttering grew louder, the gallery owner stood on a chair and clapped her hands to get their attention. ‘Hi, everybody,’ she said, trying to sound calm, ‘there seems to be a little problem, so I think it’s best if we all head outside for a while, and we’ll try to work out what’s going on.’

                 The painted bowls of fruit had spoiled. The Welsh Valleys were flood damaged. The homeless had been defaced. The artists were furious. Daniel kept his headphones on, letting music drown out their audible outrage as he took down his canvasses. The heat hadn’t affected them too badly. There was the occasional streak of black on red, but the graceful parallel sweep of paint drips seemed to suit his style of art. Having realised his part in the destruction, Daniel found that he didn’t feel very guilty. He was almost cheerful. He had read somewhere that Bacon believed in the power of chance in art, and he might have had a point, though Daniel didn’t dare mention it to the disgruntled artists.
                 His paintings dry once more, he tied them with string so he could carry them back to his flat. As he stood, he noticed the mimeshow before him. The gallery owner was trying to apologise, or defend herself, against the furies. They gestured wildly to their ruined canvasses, and she raised her hands in submission and shook her head, before turning away from them.
                 ‘Daniel,’ she said, approaching him, as he pulled out one headphone to hear, ‘I have to let you know, I am so sorry for what happened last night. There must be some kind of malfunction with the heating system. We didn’t know. But the gallery isn’t covered for this sort of…accident. But I’m sure it will be no problem restoring your paintings.’
                 Daniel looked at her harried expression, then at his own canvasses. ‘Actually,’ he said, feeling sorry for her, ‘I think it might be an improvement.’