A Tough Crowd
Posted on 15 Jan 2024 @ 1:36pm by Brek - Timeless Treasures Art Gallery
Edited on on 06 Feb 2024 @ 10:06pm
Mission:
M4 - Falling Out
Location: OC Promenade - Timeless Treasures Art Gallery
Timeline: M4 D7 Evening
1349 words - 2.7 OF Standard Post Measure
Ooc: with: Mrs Novikov (BlueJay Import Export), her teenage son Kyrill, Glutik the Tellarite, and Bajeem the Romulan artist.
Brek was looking with great satisfaction at a row of canvases that were absolutely devoid of colours. One couldn’t even find the slightest tiny little sketch on the pristine white surfaces. There were no imperfections either. Those were the best canvases available on the market, and it didn’t look like anyone had ever touched them since they had left their production line. They were nonetheless at the heart of a grand event, so the Ferengi had called most of his regulars, including the unpleasant Kyrill, so that they too could marvel at his brand new exhibition.
“Let me guess,” Mrs Novikov said, her voice a little impatient. “This is one of those artsy affairs masquerading as clever. One where the artist has produced no work whatsoever and the public is supposed to decide what it is they are looking at.” She sighed. “You showed me one of those, once. Only the background was black. Mr Brek, you are a constant disappointment.”
Because she had been told that she was going to witness something unique and grandiose, Novikov had dressed for a grand soirée and it had to be said: her long black dress suited her nicely. He couldn’t touch it, obviously, but the fabric was luxurious. Satin or velvet. She had also adorned herself with gold earrings and bracelets.
“So, it’s like staring at a wide expanse of pure snow, without even a breeze to disrupt anything?” Glutik, giant Tellarite by nature, with an uncanny understanding of art, mused. He combed his red beard with his fingers and he added. “It’s like Rura Penthe on a quiet afternoon?”
“Or it’s a close-up view of a thick slice of delicious white bread,” Bajeem, the Romulan artist, said. He, on his side, had made no effort to dress well tonight. He was sporting an awful jumpers with green and yellow lines. It looked like something the artist had knitted himself, with his feet. “I’m so hungry! You don’t happen to have a little snack, round here, Mr Brek? I could eat anything, even a slug steak.”
“If you were more productive, Bajeem,” Brek lectured him, “You would have no problem putting food on the table.”
“I am productive!” The Romulan protested. “But no one likes what I paint. Art collectors are horrible, they always complain. The landscape is too bright, too dark. It doesn’t breathe, there aren’t enough details...”
“Right, we get the picture,” Brek interrupted him. “Any progress on that landscape you owe me. ‘The Fall of Freljord’?”
Bajeem shrugged. “I have finished it, but what’s the point? You won’t like it.”
“Contrary to appearance, I don’t dislike things in advance, Bajeem.” Brek told him. “If you have something new, I want to see it.”
“But I can assure you...”
“By all that is precious. Show, don’t tell! What is it, in this simple concept, that you don’t understand?” Brek almost shouted.
Bajeem sniffed, whether it was because his feelings were hurt or because everyone was staring at him, Brek couldn’t say. Thankfully the Romulan produced a PaDD, and on its screen the painting of an old ruin with dark stones and pointed turrets appeared. The sky was abjectly grey with a hint of green and in the foreground there was a lone figure, clad in black, observing the ruin with an expression of awe and wonder.
“It is actually quite good,” Brek had to admit. In the original version, now lost, there wasn’t much left of the ruins, but Bajeem’s painting had imitated the landscape and the atmosphere of the original masterpiece. “The moment you bring this painting to this gallery, Bajeem, will also be the moment you get paid.”
“It is indeed very good,” Kyrill echoed. “I like it. It’s moody with just the right hint of mystery and suspense. It’s like those ruins are hiding a dark secret. It makes me wish I could visit them.”
Mrs Novikov glanced at the image and agreed with her son. “Of course, you need to be in the right kind of mood for that sort of thing. Myself, I would keep this type of art locked into a crypt.”
“We don’t have one,” Kyrill remarked.
“Exactly,” she replied. “So are we going to see what those white canvases are all about? Or are we just here to chit-chat? I don’t dislike the company, don’t get me wrong.” However the glance she cast on their little assembly said otherwise. “But I was promised something fabulous that would leave me gobsmacked - to use Mr Brek’s words - whilst costing me nothing, except for a few minutes of my time.”
“You have a point, my dear Mrs Novikov. As the saying goes, suspense is worse than disappointment.” Brek added. “Let’s move on. So, for it to work best, I’d ask each of you to stand right in front of a canvas. You are about to see something exceptional.”
“If those canvases turn into simple mirrors,” Mrs Novikov said, her voice quite harsh, “I might just slap you, Brek. You have been warned”
Brek observed her, a little concerned. She wouldn’t, would she? Still, he chased this dark cloud away and he added: “Is everyone ready?”
“For heaven’s sake,” she hissed.
Brek grinned and clapped his hands. Within the next few seconds each canvas filled with colours. There were vibrant brushstrokes, bursts of sunshine yellow, crimson swirls bleeding into melancholic blues. Hues of oranges that were amazingly vivid. The best part was that those splashes of colours weren’t static, they morphed constantly.
“What are we looking at?” Glutik asked tentatively. The canvas in front of him was a firework of warm colours, unmarred by any shadows.
“Mrs Novikov wasn’t far off when she mentioned mirrors,” Brek explained. “This is an exhibition that reveals people’s emotions. You see, they are little sensors all around those canvases, and they translate what emotions they perceive into splashes of colours. What you see in front of you at this very moment is a snapshot of your emotions.”
The moment he said that, Mrs Novikov stepped away from the canvases. Yet her emotional mirror, so to speak, had revealed nothing untoward. Only the nicest yellows and greens and blues appeared on her canvas. The image, Brek thought, of a relatively happy woman. The same could be said of Kyrill, whose emotional reflections weren’t terribly dark. Was this typical of Hewmons? Perhaps that they liked to appear more miserable than they actually were? In fact, the only one whose mood looked dark was Bajeem. But then he was Romulan. What else to expect?
“So, your idea of entertainment, Mr Brek, is to expose people’s vulnerabilities?” Mrs Novikov asked, not best pleased at all. “This is not grandiose at all. It is extremely intrusive!”
“How can that be?” Brek countered. “Those canvases only show colours and we are free to interpret them whichever way we want. We are talking about art, not political secrets.”
Bajeem smiled. “All the same, an exhibition like that, people should be informed beforehand of what’s going to happen. Going though this should be a choice not a surprise.”
They all looked at Brek with insistence. The only one among them who had not allowed the sensors to display his emotions.
“Well, well well,” Brek continued. “What a tough crowd you are! Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’ve got to dash. Would you believe it, I forgot something extremely urgent! An appointment I cannot afford to miss.”
And he didn’t linger, he was out of the gallery before Glutik could take a step in his direction. He had seen his emotional portrait just this morning, and it was disturbing. The sensors had rendered a weird patchwork of black and white shapes. No colours, no joy, no nothing.
