Woulda Shoulda Coulda
Posted on 24 Oct 2023 @ 2:43pm by Sylvie Hardt - Surrat Gallery & Moon-Young Chung
Edited on on 06 Feb 2024 @ 10:14pm
Mission:
M4 - Falling Out
Location: Obsidian Command, Promenade, Surrat Gallery
Timeline: Back post, following Mother"Mother"
3410 words - 6.8 OF Standard Post Measure
A Note to Our Readers: So...Nikki and I wrote this post back in May. I thought I posted it at that point, but recently while referring to it in another post, I realized that I never hit ye' old 'post' button. In the timeline this happens just after the post "Mother" back in Mission 3.
Bong-Cha’s declarations of doom and doubt gnawed its way through Moon’s confidence. Everything around her looked suddenly foreign, as opposed to exciting: instead of sky, ceiling; instead of the sound of birds, the mechanical hum of mechanics. Moon had been here three days, and already was confused by the people - Brek and his suits! - how the shops did business, even this latinum nonsense.
In the fog of her thoughts, Moon wandered into a new level of the Promenade unaware. There were no gaudy banners hanging here, no loose sales rakes outside of the shop windows. The shops wore veneers of obsidian stone, the odd white vein shooting through them like a falling star against the midnight sky. Stately fountains loosed sprays of water into the air in symmetric patterns, manicured six-foot-tall spiral-shaped green shrubs jetted out from thick white clay pots were precisely placed next to wrought iron benches. Ethereal music floated through the air in the background.
It was still early the morning, but the few patrons on this level were wearing various shades of white and black. They strolled by Moon with barely concealed sneers. She looked at her bright orange jumper, shoulders of sky blue and a large white chevron across the chest. Her sneakers and hair bow were color coordinated with the entire outfit. If she’d known she was going to end up in snooty-central, she would have worn her black-and-white suit. It even had a hat.
Her mother would fit well here, Moon thought glumly. What if she’s right? If she stayed and everything ended in disaster, she would have to rebuild her career nearly from scratch.
She felt lightheaded.
Moon found her way to the nearest wall. She leaned her head against the cool stone, hoping to melt into it. Swallowing her despondency with a gulp, she pushed herself away and founder herself staring at a sculpture that could only be Cardassian. Moon was not one for signs - her mother’s dalliances with astrology had never interested her - but she hoped to marry a man who had a strong affinity for the people.
Whoever had painted the golden Cardassian letterforms on a sign hanging over the door’s header knew their calling: Moon could’ve stood there contemplating the brush strokes for hours; she didn’t even know the language. Helpfully, “Surrat Gallery” was stenciled in Federation Standard just underneath.
Squaring her shoulders, Moon pushed through the door…and into a work in progress.
Inside of the Gallery stood a mixed-Cardassian in a black dress and cardigan, holding a checklist while overseeing a maintenance crew moving a wall. She looked mortified to see a patron enter the Gallery in such a state. “Did Mr Aiden not secure the door?” She asked one of the crew disassembling a display wall. The workman shrugged in reply and looked less affected than she felt by the embarrassing oversight as he was more concerned with the job she was paying him for. So the woman collected herself and spun around with a smile. You never new who someone was and Sylvie hardly wanted to chase off a patron over an error on her part.
“I’m sorry for the state you find the Gallery in today. We’re between shows. My name is Sylvie Hardt, I’m the owner. Is there something that brings you in?”
“I’d like to - ” Moon cleared her throat. “I’d like to talk about that piece in the window.”
“Really? I just set those out.” Sylvie smiled, as if the early interest was an approval of her new choice of direction. “They’re holographic frozen-light sculpted reliefs. Originals from a contemporary artist on my homeworld.”
“Cardassia? Or one of the colonies?”
“It was a Cardassian colony world, Niala, until the dominion war era, when the colony left the Union and renamed itself Iries. There was a great deal of federation resettlement, being so near other border worlds with redrawn political lines, the inhabitants having been forced out of their homes. Would you like to see the work?”
“Yes, please.”
Sylvie set her checklist aside and moved gracefully towards the window display, her arms swaying as if walking was a kind of practice she’d developed. She hadn’t yet secured the back of the window display unit and slid the back cover into the wall pocket. “Do you have an interest in Cardassian arts?”
“My father was the ambassador to Cardassia…after the war…” Moon blurted out. Even she had to roll her eyes. They’d lived on Bajor for a second before her parents divorced, but that was Bajor and not Cardassia.
“Was he?” Sylvie stopped a moment, wondering if this young woman's father might have met any of her own relatives. Not that she would want to be known by her… distasteful relatives who had chosen to return to Cardassia during the war era rather than to become Federation Citizens. She elected not to bring up any of that.
“My boy - er - fiance was on Cardassia helping with the rebuild, too. He has this brown, black, and white scarf with these geometric patterns which is really quite stunning. I’m looking for some pieces for his office.”
“I’m uncertain,” Sylvie pursed her lips, “That his work on Cardassia would lead him to be interested in such a scion of Cardassian culture as Iries Colony, but have a look as you may be the better judge of his tastes.”
The Gallery owner brought the display pedestal out effortlessly, as it had built-in hover lifts underneath. The works were each made of luminescence which was fully formed, almost like layers of glass, but without the limitations of glass layered medium. They were secured on two pillars each and in different display sizes, the smallest being the size of a common portrait, and the largest as big as a typical window pane. They were stylistically delicate and almost had the appearance of weightlessness in the abstractions, the way the layers were suspended with one another. “Not everyone understands modern media such as this. There remains a bigger market for classical painting, craft, and sculpting. But this is no less authentic and far more durable than classic media. It will never fade nor rust. While I’m told they are just as pleasurable for the human eye, there is a hue in them specific to Cardassian experience that is lost to human perception.”
Moon circled the pieces, as she did so regaining her composure: art had always been her escape hatch. “Beautiful, but I’d want something that different races can experience as one without any being left out.”
Sylvie crossed her arms and cusped her chin in careful thought, taking the idea somewhat to heart. “While laudable, that *is* quite a tall order. Many Anticans are color blind entirely. And the general population of Saurians do not experience depth perception very well…”
“Oh, of course, but I’m thinking of the works of Dak Bel. The sculptures she creates are experienced differently by a wide range of species. Only by coming together in discussion can everyone begin to understand the meaning of the piece. She’s Cardassian isn’t she?”
Sylvie’s eyes lit with understanding. The young lady wasn’t looking for something everyone could experience in the same fashion, but rather something people experienced all uniquely. Bel had something of a growing reputation in the reconstruction era. Sylvie had been tracking her showings from afar. “She does work out of Cardassia, yes. I believe she is also showing on Loval and Korma now-a-days. Her work is in high demand, and not particularly found in our region of space. Many are entire installations designed for the gallery in which they are shown, and most not especially suited to office display. While there are holographic experiences available to the public abroad, I’m afraid I haven’t any of her original work to hand.”
“Anything like it?”
“She’s something of a product of her particular time and place, like so many laudable artisans. The work she is doing comes from a particular breakdown between cultures, her own place in their intersection, and the motion to rebuild them anew and construct that dialogue. There are others striving in the same vein, but those who imitate fall short. You have fantastic taste in calling her to mind. I would be honored if I even thought I could attract such an installation. But I wouldn’t seek a secondary in place of her work. It would be obviously inferior.” There was amusement in her voice. “If that were the case, you might as well gift your fiance an intentionally kitschy office poster bought for a slip of latinum at Milli-cents’ General Supply and have the embarrassment over with.”
“I like kitsch,” Moon said absent-mindely while considering the many ways she could use a kitschy poster.
Sylvie smiled, remembering a mass produced bird sculpture her Grandfather had kept. Both wings had been broken and re-glued and the thing kept on the pedestal in the guest hall. With all the finery they had to their family name, she could only imagine he had kept it for sentiment. “I am not against it. Save where it’s unintentional or insincere.”
“I always thought Vulcans do a fair job of it. Those haircuts, right?”
“Ironic or unfortunate…?” Sylvie murmured.
“Exactly!” Moon chuckled. “Anyway, Rice knows all too well about breakdown between cultures. Well. Onward, then. Tell me about those?” Moon asked, pointing to one of the pieces the workers were moving into place.
Sylvie allowed a moment for herself to return the display unit to its place. Although momentarily disappointed at how quickly the young lady moved on in her search, Sylvie never bothered herself with pressing a sale that wasn’t fit for the buyer. Works having been re-secured, she also adjusted the sweater-shrug she was wearing and then took her time meeting Moon before the semi- finished back wall of the Gallery. The workers were securing panels and peeling away the surface coverings that had protected the material beneath. About a third was fully installed, giving a clear idea what the overall installation would look like.
“Original tilework, from Obsidian. They’re each crafted by hand and make up traditional images and patterns of naturalistic plant life or landscapes. When fitted together it will fill this wall.” There was one of the panels with the packing material removed, showing the high level of skill and yet imperfect nature of materials and processes particular to clay and glaze.
“The murals are produced in a studio outside of Kalara under the Federation’s Seed Vault project which expanded decades ago into agricultural and other areas of sustainable supply and fair labor. Families of those laborers working on the hydroponic farms have also established other arts and practices which are now under the Seed Vault Cooperative, one of the few remaining functional projects shared by Obsidian locals and Federation members alike, while most have had to shut down in the past few years. The studio is owned and managed by craftswomen with several generations experience.”
Sylvie folded her hands loosely in front of her. “They have had difficulty in local Kalaran markets as the studio mothers chose to preserve and expand their production methods by training and incorporating offworlders who have settled in the outskirts with them. Most Kalaran building contracts are not interested in patroning them since. While this installation is custom fit, I have an agreement with the studio to arrange orders like it.”
“Can’t have that in his office,” Moon laughed. “Not when he’s having tea with Hazami what’s his face, conservative faction chief.”
“I can see how that might present an obstacle.”
“But I like them. Can I ask a question that’s off topic?”
“By all means.”
“You’re so far from home. Why are you here trying to do this?”
“I’m afraid the answer would be quite a lengthy tale. But I am attempting to conjure something anew out of the remnant of things lost to me, essentially.”
“Oh. Has that happened to you a lot? Starting over?”
Sylvie sighed a long sigh of resignation. “Betwixt revolution, insolvency, and revocation. A few times, yes.”
“I had a thriving career on Earth,” Moon blurted, “My mother thinks I threw it all away to chase a man who’s married to his work. She says that I was lucky the first time to do that and I should just go back before everything falls apart here.”
“My father also has expressed his disapproval of my relocation here. My mother…” Sylvie looked a little beyond the young woman, watchfully tracking as other crated work was brought in from storage. She often wondered what her mother might have thought of so many of her life choices, had she been there to have an opinion. But it wasn’t in her heart to puncture her visitor’s thoughts with sympathy over her loss, so long ago. Still, the reports of the attack on the Governing Hall her mother had convened in that day ripped fresh through her memory. “Well, nothing is guaranteed.” She said as she brought her focus back. “Whether you’re viewing it from Loki or Sol, you will always look out and wonder what might have been. Embrace where you are.”
“In other words, woulda’s, shoulda’s, coulda’s are going to happen regardless.” Moon sighed. “I’m sorry for your losses.”
Sylvie dipped her head a little to one side, in appreciation for the sympathy. “The past is prologue, as it’s been said. And now it is up to me to choose… how to frame it all.”
Moon nodded; her doubt beginning to recede. This woman had started over multiple times and, from the sounds of it, all on the heels of disaster. It wasn’t like Broadway was going anywhere.
“My mother has the innate ability to make me revert to a ten-year-old girl. This move wasn’t exactly a life plan of mine. I just did it.”
“Then it was either impulsive or instinctual.” Sylvie said, knowing that was for the young lady herself to determine. “Maybe something of both.”
Moon tightened the bright bow wrapped around her ponytail with a jerk, then looked at Sylvie for the first time. Good god.
“Can I ask another question?” she asked slowly.
“Of course.”
“Is the black dress working for you?”
Sylvie, noting the younger woman’s colorful jumper, smirked and pressed her fingertips together. “In the gallery, yes. It’s become something of a persona for me. A uniform, if you will.”
“That’s a good word for it. I noticed everyone else was wearing either black, white, or both on my way in. When Karl Lagerfeld wore black it was iconic. When everyone wears black it’s…” Moon let the thought drift away, suddenly hearing herself. “I’m sorry, thank you for talking with me and showing me your pieces.”
“Ah, yes. Of course. I hope you do come back for the opening of the new show.” Sylvie crossed to a small pedestal with the guestbook and returned to give her a small printed card. A piece of nostalgia that some still cared to collect. On the one side it had the name of the gallery, in the same rich gold-on-black printing as the signage. On the other, a shifting electronic ink printing of the key pieces promised to be in the show.
Moon took the card and looked at it for a long moment. This woman had been helpful. She couldn’t just leave her like this, “Pinstripes!”
“Pardon?” Sylvie appeared confused. “Pinstripes?”
“Pinstripes. If you have to stick with the black, use pinstripes to create interest. Or, better yet, wear white dresses with thin black pinstripes. You’d stand out more.”
She looked thoughtful. “I suppose I could create a little more interest in my uniform.”
“And just a bit of color. Oh!” Moon fished around in her pocket, pulling out a hand-sized PADD and stylus. She began sketching. “Blue or green. Scarf?” She looked up at Sylvie. “No, you like a simple look, right?”
Sylvie turned another one of the cards in her hand, considering the interest in her uninteresting choices. “You have work or take pleasure in the arena of fashion?”
“I’m a designer,” Moon said matter-of-factly, concentrating more on her sketching.
“Do you offer consultations?”
She stopped and looked up, “I suppose that’s what I’m doing now. So, yes. Yes, I do.”
“Well, you aren’t the first to have told me I’m rather drab in my mode of dress. Perhaps it’s worth updating my wardrobe.”
Moon began pelting her with rapid fire questions. “Would you go for all white with black pinstripes? How traditional are you? Leg slit? How do you feel about bare shoulders? I know Cardassians have sensitive shoulders…”
Sylvie was a little overwhelmed. “Why don’t we meet to discuss? I have a studio conjoining on the next level I haven’t opened as of yet, if you haven’t your own place of business.”
Tapping her stylus on her lips, Moon thought about it. “Actually, best to do it in my - our - quarters. I’ll need my supplies. Some holo-emitters.”
“It might be interesting to have a new look for the new show opening. I can meet later today, if you’re available.”
“Yes. It’ll take several hours. I’ll need to understand you better. Dinner? Rice won’t mind.”
“Rice? Your fiance? I wouldn’t want to intrude.”
“Mm-hmm. He’ll be thrilled.” Moon snapped her fingers. “Oh! I can invite my friend Brek, too. He’s also in desperate need of a new wardrobe. Not that you’re in desperate need. You know. The cardigan is nice.”
“Mr. Brek! Ah. The competition!” She said brightly.
“Right. The ‘competition.’ That’s him.” Were Sylvie and Brek racing somewhere? Moon had a feeling it had to do with business. Everything with Brek seemed to revolve around financial transactions. Don’t Ferengi just chill out about that stuff?
She waved a hand. “I should be glad to share a meal with him as well. We had already spoken of meeting over dinner sometime soon.”
“Perfect. We’ll all be friends then. Tonight. I’ll replicate some…” Rice would know what to replicate. He’d once mentioned something about Cardassian soup. “...great dinner.”
“We should be friends, although I am terribly afraid I am yet ignorant of your name.” Sylvie had learned a number of things about her, save that detail.
“Moon-Young Chung. Recently arrived, obviously! I was a costume designer for theater productions on Earth. Two Tony’s, an Olivier, and a Mahindra..”
Sylvie looked a little uncertain as to the list of names. “You have children? Two Tonys?” She seemed so young for such a brood, although Sylvie refrained from saying it.
Moon was one of the rare people in the theater world who didn’t parade their trophies under everyone’s noses. Of course the one time she would drop it into a conversation it would blow up in her face. Way to go!
“No, those are awards. On Earth. For theater stuff,” she said awkwardly, “I was just giving you my CV so you’d know I wasn’t just some wanna-be fashion designer.”
“Ohhh. I see. So you haven’t any children then.” Sylvie clarified.
She cleared her throat. “So, dinner!”
“Yes, dinner. This evening, Ms. Chung. At your fiance’s, Mr Rice's?”
“Maurice. Maurice Rubens, but everyone calls him ‘Rice,’ for reasons that only he can explain. He’s the Chief Diplomatic Officer.”
“Then it should be fairly straightforward to locate him.” Sylvie gave her a slight bow and a smile. “Your visit has been a pleasant surprise. I hope you will understand I mean nothing by it when I secure the door behind you, however.”
