Work Text:
“I suppose I do not have the expertise to assess the quality of this piece.”
What Isabella d’Este wanted to say was “This is base, disgusting garbage, whose only intent was to make me angry, and in its favor I can say it succeeds.” But she had just gotten out of a good session with Samuel, and was feeling charitable. That, and the museum was being very courteous in letting her come in after closing hours to study the art.
The painting, not even worthy of a title, by some nobody named Pollock, was a mess. Splatters of puke-colored paint streaked across the canvas every which way, in a cacophony of visual chaos. She was starting to believe that the best way to experience an exhibition on American art was to go in blindfolded.
Her guide, a puny thing in a vest that kept slipping out of place on her shoulders, smiled politely. "It takes a lot to admit that. Most people just say 'they could do that.'"
"Ha! I would have no desire to make something like that.”
“Probably not. But Pollock had a lot of reasons to.”
“Yes, I am aware. My formal education may be confined to the Renaissance, but I am not so trapped as to not keep up with the times.” Isabella brushed the dust off of her dress. She’d had to commission it from a costume maker, the ignonimity.
“Of course. Have you ever tried splatter painting, though? I think it’s fun.”
“How can anyone hope to capture the beauty of the world with splatter? Even the word brings bile to the throat.” Nevermind that as a vampire she had no bile to speak of, but her guide didn’t need to know that.
“Well, firstly, not every painting is trying to be beautiful, at least not in the classical sense. And a painting can be beautiful on its own, right? It doesn’t need to be pretending to be anything else. That’s what makes Pollock’s work so interesting, it reveals the movements of the paint and gravity itself. You can almost see his arm arcing over the canvas.”
A tiny urge in the back of Isabella’s hand made her want to buy the painting just so she could burn it.
She did not like not understanding things, especially about art. She did not like this “automatism.” Gravity was no artist. Gravity did not understand by heart the intricacies of the human form, nor the lines of composition. An artist must have control over her body and her brush, so what is in her mind may be made manifest for the rest of the world to see with perfect clarity. “I need no movement in my art. It is the one thing that stays still. This is the great comfort of art.”
The guide adjusted her vest again, still smiling. “You know, there’s an exhibit on Fluxus I’d love to hear your thoughts on.”
Isabella raised an eyebrow.
This “Fluxus” lived up to its name. It was apparently a pile of trash. That wasn’t labeling, either, it was all composed of objects which wouldn’t be out of place in a rubbish bin. Her guide flitted from photographs of a woman with a paintbrush taped to her undergarments, squatting to paint, to photographs of a group of people sawing at a perfectly good pianoforte, to aged pamphlets. Isabella kept her mouth shut as her guide babbled.
“They wanted to bring art to the masses, to the everyday moments. Most of their stuff was just paper instructions, or performances that could only happen once, captured only in photos. A lot of the less popular artists from the movement are probably totally lost! But even the most well-known Fluxus art was ephemeral, only making sense in one place during one time. It relinquished control from the art establishment to the audience who could truly love it for what it was.” She sighed. “I wish I could’ve been there.”
Something like sorrow came over Isabella d’Este. Because she had been there, alive (or, as alive as a vampire could claim to be) during such an evidently formative time in the world of art, but she had not been there. She had not appreciated it. And now, it would never happen again. She didn’t even particularly enjoy what she’d seen of the movement, clearly not in the way her guide did, and yet here she was.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Isabella said, surprising herself. She scoured her mind to find what place that had come from, and grabbed with delight the thread it had tossed out. “You are there. I have seen the birth of many art movements, and I will tell you this: they never die. They are like cockroaches.” She grasped her guide’s hand. “The art object is fragile. It starts to disintigrate in your hands from the moment it is finished. The spirit that made the art object, that is eternal, as long as someone knows of it.”
Her guide was clearly surprised, but still smiling. "I guess you're right. Sometimes I forget I have a lot to learn."
"And now that you remember, do not forget." It was a plea more than a command, but her voice still made it come across as the latter. She still had an image.
Her guide’s newfangled “smart watch” made a high-pitched chirp. She soothed it by tapping its screen. “I guess that’s all the time we have for tonight. I’ll lead you out.”
As their shoes clicked down the polished hall, they passed the Pollock from before.
“Do you see how Pollock’s work can be beautiful now?”
Isabella thought about it. “No. I still think it looks ugly. But I suppose I can understand now the thought process that might lead someone to believe it is beautiful. Time and gravity are sisters, after all.”
“That’s what I’m here for. I always thought teaching art chronologically from the earliest to the latest was a bit backwards! The now is what we all start with, and what we all have in common, isn’t it?”
“It is.”
Later, in the first of many "art therapy" assignments, Isabella would close her eyes and fling paint onto canvas, no image in her head to guide her.