𝕕 𝕣 𝕖 𝕒 𝕞

Yael enjoyed good debates, and sadly, she hardly ever got any, because she made sure she was well educated on the subjects she talked about. If the other person wasn’t as informed as she was the debate didn’t take too long. 

Art, however, was very different. Of course, there was technical stuff about it and hard facts, but there was little need to debate those facts, what was more interesting was discussing the paintings and their times and opinions based on taste, and there was no correct information or a universal truth about it.

Timothy was a lot more educated on these topics than she was but when it came down to what they each preferred they were on an equal playing field and that made it a lot more interesting.

On a different occasion, she would have turned him down, told him to walk away and leave her in peace, but the Faun seemed to have a strong will and wasn’t phased by her words at all while still remaining professional and friendly, which was fascinating to her. 

So she followed suit and walked with him, curious about what he had in store for her. “ I come here because museums and libraries deter people from just walking up and starting to talk to me. Usually, that is.” 

She had thrown the grenade, now she was going to watch and see how he would react. 

Timothy makes a suppressed noise of amusement in the back of his throat, and the none-too-subtle rebuke doesn’t phase him at all. He just keeps walking -- a slow pace, designed to let her cast a gaze over the art they’re passing, if she wishes to -- hands clasped behind his back, steps a little louder than most in the relative hush.

“You know how cats seem to have an uncanny sense about people who aren’t cat people? And they’ll single those people out every time, to go lay in their lap and purr, much to that person’s dismay?” Timothy tips her a jaunty wink. “I’m afraid I was born with much the same instinct. Terribly sorry.”

They come to a stop in front of one of the larger paintings in the gallery, a work by a local artist, depicting the scenery off the coast at sunrise. Waves frozen in the act of crashing against a small light house; the sea, orange-lit at the horizon and dark blue toward the land.

“No, I’m afraid this particular gallery comes equipped with a chatty faun who doesn’t know when to leave well enough alone,” he continues, “and is very determined to provoke some sort of admiration.”

“ It’s a bit much.” she said. “ Art in an Art Museum that might not be art but might still be art… I think the problem with most of these things is that it lacks… ‘passion’“ she said as she focused on the tower in front of her. “ Most people would agree that art is art because someone wanted to create something coming from a place of passion. No matter if it’s sadness, anger, happiness… “ of course there were probably enough examples of the opposite that were officially deemed art, but this wasn’t about exceptions confirming the rules. “ It doesn’t take a lot of passion to just put a single dot on canvas to see what people might see in it. I think art needs to be a meeting between the artist and the viewer. But with a lot of these pieces the artist didn’t do their duty, they didn’t try to meet anyone half way. They put something down and then expect the viewer to do all of the work for them, and then they feel like they have found something profound when all they have done is the equivalent of presenting school children with pictures and telling them to write a story around them. It wouldn’t make the teacher an artist, even if they have created said picture, but the children that wrote the stories.” 

She acknowledged that the art allowed some form of discussion but to her it seemed that it was always the same kind and it was never about the actual craft.  “ This at least looks like someone spend some time creating something…. and yes, I know why you would think I would enjoy impressionism, but I don’t like visible brush strokes.” she didn’t have deep knowledge about art, but she did at least know the popular art movements since she likes to go to the museum to be left alone, and there was little else to do there but to look at the installations.

Timothy wants to argue -- he very, very much wants to argue -- or, rather, debate, since his reply wouldn’t be with a spirit of negativity but rather enthusiasm for the topic at hand and the many different perspectives of what makes art art. But, alas. He is not the museum’s designated debater, he’s the Curator, and it makes for terrible business if he drives visitors away.

He makes a thoughtful noise, watching her, considering. He gets the feeling he could suggest any number of genres and get turned down; she’s clearly got a solid idea of what sort of art she likes.

“Walk with me,” he suggests brightly, tilting his head to gesture to the exit of the conceptual section.

He will get a positive comment out of her, damn it. He’s determined.

“When I procure pieces for this museum,” he tells her as they walk, slowly meandering toward the pop art section, “my main goal in mind is stories. I want people to look at the art here and see a wealth of experience, of passion. I want people to be able to look at styles they normally despise but nonetheless feel for the story behind it. But everybody comes here for their own reasons. Study, inspiration, culture. Even a bit of peace and quiet. What’s your reason, if you don’t mind me asking?”

It’s the smile that lets Vic know he’s lost - and honestly, he can’t seem to muster up much shame about the fact. This man - this faun, he thinks with amusement, is clearly a regular or perhaps even works there. It was a losing battle from the start. 

“Hm…” Vic takes the loss in stride and with a small shrug of his shoulders. “I hope it was a donation at least, and not something the museum had to pay for.” 

The man laughs and it’s a light sort of thing, pleasant to the ear in fact which is not something Vic would expect to find himself thinking in a million years. Oh god, he groaned inwardly. he’d run into one of those personable people whom everyone adored. 

 He listened to the man continue talking and solidified his assumption that he worked at the museum - perfect. He’d be able to help Vic find the curator. He blanched as the man offered to show him more art and rushes to inform him that his presence was not driven by the desire to admire anymore so called art. “You can show me whatever you want as long as it’s in the direction of the Curator’s office. I have some business to attend to with him. I assume you can point me in the right direction? Unless of course you don’t actually work here and are instead some fanatic who gets his kicks by talking up the patrons and showing off his knowledge of…cups.” 

Timothy blinks, and takes a second, clearly weighing something in his mind. His expression goes through a veritable roller-coaster -- first contemplation, then a cheeky almost-smirk, then a visible grabbing of reins and halting whatever idea had just crossed his mind.

“As funny as it would be if I were some arrogant cup-lecturing mansplainer, I’m actually the Curator, hello,” he chuckles, rocking back on his hooves. “I had half a mind to offer to show you to the office, sit down behind my desk, and only then admit I’m who you’re looking for, but that might have been a bit mean?”

Probably. Funny, yes, but a bit too on the mockery side. The poor man already looks vaguely horrified at the notion of being shown more art, Timothy doesn’t want to drive him away.

Yael had decided that it was time to do something public. For these occasions, she tended to use places like museums and libraries, because those were places where people usually went to have a solitary or small group experience and not a place where someone would run up to her and pester her with questions about politics or her social life or anything else. 

Today she had chosen to visit the museum and since she disliked modern art, it seemed like the best place to go and look. She was honestly surprised about the selection. A lot of it seemed to her like a physical representation of laziness, but  whens he walked up to the gradient of cups she found herself appreciating it.  The mere fact that she enjoyed looking at this piece of art was probably the confusion that Timothy had read on her face. “ I’m not your friend.” she said as form of greeting, though it wasn’t as cold as it could’ve been and more a side comment while still being concentrated on the cups. 

“ I’m not sure if it’s art but it’s closer to it than anything else in this room.” she admitted and finally turned to look at the Faun. “ But maybe that’s just because I like gradients. They remind me of water.” Without her tail it was impossible to tell that she was a mermaid, but she had an air about her that just felt ‘non human’ which excluded at least one more possible Species. 

It’s like Timothy doesn’t even hear her say I’m not your friend -- his friendly smile doesn’t shift an inch, water off of a duck’s back. 

“Yes, the art in here is quite open to interpretation, so to speak,” he replies, laughter rolling underneath his words. “That’s actually the whole point of this section; to make viewers question whether or not they’re looking at art. And if you like it because it has a gradient, and that makes it art to you, I suppose I’ve succeeded in a certain way.”

He decides not to point her at the podium that boasts a single blank piece of paper. That likely won’t be well received, it seems.

Vic was, once again, forced out into the open. As a Council member and more importantly, as a scientist, he was used to being holed up in a small room, unable to move without the fear of knocking something over. Going days with the barest of sustenance and even longer without any interaction with another person because he was that close to groundbreaking results.

And yet, here he was at a museum of all places. Not that he was against old things, this one just happened to be too focused on art for his liking. 

The fact of the matter was that they were in need of the museum’s help and somehow Vic had been volunteered to schmooze the curator whoever he was. And if that didn’t work? Well, threats were always a good back up. But Vic preferred to start with option A. 

He’s left distracted at what he considers an absolutely abhorrent piece of something before he makes it to their office. It’s a complete eye sore and a waste of space in his opinion but who was he to judge what was art? He’s a simple mage, so he doesn’t sense the presence before they make themselves known, but he doesn’t jump. Sylense always had a way of sneaking up on you and Vic had learned early to expect it. 

“My bet’s on the caterer,” He replied a bit awkwardly. Small talk wasn’t his forte but he was learning to push through it. “But i’ve never been a gambling man. I have the feeling that i’d lose far too often for my pockets to handle.”

Timothy stops trying to suppress his amused little smile -- the bet on the caterer makes his grin tug wider, because honestly, it’s what most people seem to land on. One sees a pile of plastic cups and one really does assume it’s not art.

In response, he gestures down at the little plaque on the podium. It’s easy to miss, but it reads, almost accusingly:

Tom Friedman 65 Cups, 2002

“Good thing you’re not a gambling man,” he laughs. “You’re also clearly not a conceptual art sort of man, which is perfectly understandable. Not all of us see the point of stacked cups or spider legs arranged on a piece of paper.” Which is another Friedman work, currently placed approximately two feet to the left of 65 Cups. 

It’s hideous. Timothy adores it.

“Can I interest you in, perhaps, something a bit more classical?” Timothy tilts his head, studying the man; he seems the classical sort. Or perhaps he might come completely out of left field and say that he loves Stuckism, who knows?

If pressed to name a favorite section of the art museum, Timothy would have to say the modern/conceptual section.

He does, of course, love all of the different sections. He likes seeing the narrowed eyes of awed concentration as people lean in close to the oils to see the individual brush strokes, the is that actually a drawing or a photo comment everybody makes of some of the realism works, the gasps of admiration over the sculptures. But nothing quite beats the sheer confusion some of the conceptual works produce.

Case in point: the person standing, staring, at a waist-height white podium adorned with stacked cups. Sixty-five of them, to be precise, arranged in a gradient.

The click of hooves on wood flooring announces Timothy’s presence before his amused interjection does. “Trying to figure out if that’s art, or something a caterer left behind?” he asks, lips curled into a poorly suppressed smile. “Essays have been written on that very topic, my friend. It’s a hotly debated subject.”