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Art, much like the human condition it's wrought from, is circular.
Like ouroboros consuming itself, things that are sacrilegious or gaudy in one decade are revered in another. Depictions of real events, religious scenes or legends remain the same at their core but the fresh perspective can change how they're considered.
Take the Virgin and Child, one of the most consistently portrayed images you can find in galleries and churches alike. The Nursing Madonna was a common fixture until it fell out of favour in the sixteenth century because it was seen as improper to consider that Mary may have done something as mortal as feed the son of god from her breast. There are icons and sculptures of them on the throne, derived from some Byzantine work from the eleventh century. Then there's the iconographic Hodegetria which has remained consistently popular from the twelfth century onwards. There's even a 'Paint By Numbers' version.
Somewhere, the old priest that haunted Nicolas' childhood village is rolling in his grave. Or would be, were he not at best bones and stones at this point.
The point was that art, often great art, was by its nature something that tended to die and be reborn over and over and over. There was something relatable in this; it certainly felt as if he had come to death and been wrenched to life more times than most but he'd never considered himself to be - art.
(Capable of creating it, of course, though whether it was good or not did seem to depend on the night.)
If you had to look for good art, you had to look to the fallen angel to his right.
That was no exaggeration either; he'd seen the Cabanel and there was a striking resemblance from the red-rimmed naked master of seduction and the fallen angel from the painting. Sadly not the nudity, though it wasn't as if their bodies changed and he'd already dragged his teeth across that impossibly flawless skin enough for it to flicker in his mind's eye. A beautifully broken thing cast out, the devoted and joyful rising above without a single look back.
Well, what the fuck was so wonderful about salvation anyway?
Heaven, hell, earth - either way, you're bound to a set of rules and regulations that are defined by someone else. Trust humanity to create an entire religion based on judging whether you're worthy or not based on a criteria that is constantly changing.
Heaven was probably full of boring people and there is no higher insult than to be boring.
"When did you become an art critic?"
It was almost funny the way Armand seemed to go long stretches without acknowledging his presence at all, as if he were not sure if he were real or a ghost. It would be just his luck to end up a ghost should he ever manage to truly shuffle from the mortal coil. Things had never been easy for him, unlike someone else he could mention, so why should dying be any different?
"I've fucked you and Lestat and if that's not an artistic comparison, what is?" Nicki said. "From the brightest sunlight unerring and determined to an embittered fallen angel; the rise and fall of angels and devils. The play writes itself."
"There's no one to perform it," Armand replied. It was all so terribly flat and disconnected, but there was something underpinning it. A sense of anger, bitterness; Cabanel's little angel, bent but not entirely broken.
This really was going to be such a fun reunion.
"I'm sure you could twist Eleni's arm if it came to it," Nicolas replied. "Or just remove it and hold said arm hostage, I can always rewrite it so she doesn't need it for that particular performance."
There was a flicker of something - surprise? Had he not kept tabs on the little theatre darlings? Not that Nicki had either, truthfully he'd only been disturbed less than a century ago when they wanted to build a monstrosity known as a 'mall'. But Armand, willing to leave what could be an enemy at his back?
"Most were destroyed by the Akasha," Armand replied.
Oh speaking of great mothers and inappropriate breastfeeding, the idea that they had in fact all come from one was a little funny. They were walking snubs of mortality and yet, they were supposedly all here because of a six thousand year old religious breakdown. No wonder she'd bonded with Lestat. He'd been having his in one form or another since he was nine.
And of course Lestat would love her, he’s been trying to find a mother he could fuck since he realised what a cunt was and no one was a bigger cunt than Gabrielle. It was one of the things he liked best about her.
At least when he'd made him see god, it had been a pleasant experience. Though didn't he weep over their 'queen' too? That was Lestat for you; if you were to immortalise his image then you’d have to have him sobbing for authenticity. The amount Lestat wept could bring on another flood.
"It would be a river of blood." It would be a violation from someone else, but what did it matter from Armand? He’d never met a boundary and couldn’t respect them in anyone else because of it. Or because he was just a little creep, that was also an option, but there was something more elegant about the boundary idea. "That might be considered a sign of the end of days."
"We're vampires," Nicki pointed out. "Days mean little to us."
"That's pedantic," Armand said. "You knew what I meant."
"And I'm refusing to rise to your bait," Nicolas replied. "It was a sloppy attempt to distract me from the fact you still haven't moved your ass. You realise I really don't care if you go in, don't you?"
"You care enough," Armand said, pressing his lips together hard enough they seemed to change colour. He looked like a stubborn teenager. "I will enter when I'm ready to."
"It's not the first time I've heard that from you," Nicolas replied. He'd always been such a little tease - one minute the charismatic, benevolent leader and the next, a marionette with his strings cut panicking because he doesn't know how to walk without them. "Would you like to be on my arm when you do? You wouldn't be the first person to hang off it and bluff your way through a fucking awkward situation. Literally, considering the inconsolable ex seems to have slid into the shadows somewhere."
"I don't need your help," Armand said. "I made my decision. I will follow through with it."
"Then would you consider speeding it up a little?" Nicolas replied.
As much as he tended to glamorise death, without assurance it would actually kill him and not simply cause a century of worm fooded discomfort, he had no desire to still be there when the sun rose. Besides, he had things to do. Gloat over the ex. Ruffle a few feathers. Figure out what the world's obsession with pagers was and find who designed them so they could be killed slowly and painfully. Death could wait.
"Armand?"
Well, would you look at that? Speak of the devil and he shall appear - in this case, in the form of a glum facsimile of himself gaping at his companion as if he were the second coming.
"No, but I do believe he plays him in the…’idiot box.’"
That got his attention. If Armand had rendered him shocked, then it seemed as if he got to render him a guppy.
"Hello, replacement. If you could have your break down a little to the left, one mutual former lover would like to go traumatise himself by getting thrown across a room by the other and I really don't want to miss the show. Shall we?"