Practice essay, teacher liked it. I make In-Classes shake in their silly little boots.
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Death Condoms: I’m Legal (To Die)
Terri Schiavo, a middle-aged American woman, was cut off from life support after 15 years in a ‘persistent vegetative state’. Her husband’s decision to put her sad excuse of a life to an end was a selfless one, however controversial. Not even able to breathe on her own, it is hard for one to think she had a life worth living. Is it not then reasonable to allow the ending of such perpetual discomfort? Those against euthanasia might as well be against painkillers. The right to die lies in the hands of the individual, not those of the government.
It is expensive to be alive, especially—ironically—when on the brink of death. The decision to admit oneself to a hospital, even when in critical condition, is a financially important one. Medical resources and physical space is treasured in hospitals worldwide. So when a patient is admitted ‘indefinitely’, the groans from the economic strain can be heard from many a taxpayer’s pockets. Not to say all critically conditioned people should be given up on for the sake of wealth. Only those who show no clear sign of recovery or have lived in a prolonged state of pain should consider the option of ‘chosen death’. Otherwise, is it worth devoting the majority of one’s cash flow to a cause that will most likely not meet a satisfactory end?
Selfishness seems to be the determining factor when death is a decision to be made. For example: would one deny his long-suffering cancerous mother a pain-free death if offered? The only thing that would make one say no is that one would want to keep his mother alive, just to be alive. Even with more ambiguous cases: a sister who’s been in a coma for years; and uncle who’s suffered severe, irreversible brain damage; selfishness still exists. The margin for recovery is present, but at a certain point one needs to look past his innate want to continue to hold on, and realize its not about him. It’s not him that’s hooked up to those feeding tubes, it’s not him that relies on constant medical attention and nurses to change his bedpans. Fighting to keep a dead person alive isn’t worth the battle.
If someone can decide the fate of an unborn child, one can certainly take responsibility for a lifeless shell of a person. The choices surrounding the completion of a life, while daunting, are those reliably taken on by man. In cases like abortion, the mother is put in charge of the human growing inside her; and rightfully so. Similarly, euthanasia is decided either by a close relative or loved one if the patient is incapable of making the decision—or by the patient themselves, ordering it if their condition progresses to a certain state. The certainty and knowledge of one’s own condition is indisputable. For the same reason we cannot determine when life truly begins, we cannot tell when it truly ends. Because of this, we are forced to rely on someone’s self-knowledge or their loved ones to take responsibility for their life. There is no alternative—human nature must be trusted.
Currently, one requires the approval of a panel of medical professionals to consider the option of euthanasia as an alternative to a patient’s critical, and probably terminal state. Is this what human life has been reduced to? Judged by a handful of doctors who know nothing but a list of symptoms and blood tests? Life is not so easily measured as pulse rate.
How much faith we put in scientific notion, and how little we put in human nature.
Death is considered a tragedy. But it need not be so. Life is something to be celebrated, even the end of it. After a spectacularly amazing play, one doesn’t mourn its finish; one stands up and applauds its splendors. The same should be with the passing of loved ones. Perhaps, with the acceptance of euthanasia into society, this ‘celebration’ might be more commonplace—and let Terri’s death become one of mercy, not murder.
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Legal age = 16 (for heterosexuals; for gay males, it's 18)
You were all wondering, admit it.
Tuesday, March 27, 2007
Secondo Il Dio-Mediocrity
It doesn't make a lot of sense unless you've read the play/seen the movie, but what the hell. If you're on here in the first place, you probably have nothing better to do with your time anyway.
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It was exhibition night again, but this time, it wasn’t his.
Under a lamppost stood two fragile men. Daniel, the adored and revered mediocrity, and Mozart, the loathed genius. The way Zebedeo’s spirit broke, and the diminishing sand that Daniel built his castle of ego on connected them both in frailty more than they’d ever been in talent.
“You never beat me, you know.”
“I know, Zeus.”
Leaned drunkenly against the outside wall of the Gallery, shirt and pants zipper undone, beer in hand, Zee almost shrunk into an ordinary man. If it weren’t for the God sparkling in his eyes amongst his mess of hair, he might have even been mistaken as common. Unable to shake off his own mortal coils, Daniel was, to the trained eye, nothing more than the exemplar of fetid traditionalism and stagnant security.
In his squalid state, Mozart did not notice himself falling, only Daniel rising high above him. It unsettled them both, so Daniel slid down next to him on the ground; prostrate only because he felt God should know he is not a guiltless man.
“Mediocre.”
“The Patron Saint of Mediocrity, please.”
An insane giggle.
“I’m the best.”
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Y Fin!
----------
It was exhibition night again, but this time, it wasn’t his.
Under a lamppost stood two fragile men. Daniel, the adored and revered mediocrity, and Mozart, the loathed genius. The way Zebedeo’s spirit broke, and the diminishing sand that Daniel built his castle of ego on connected them both in frailty more than they’d ever been in talent.
“You never beat me, you know.”
“I know, Zeus.”
Leaned drunkenly against the outside wall of the Gallery, shirt and pants zipper undone, beer in hand, Zee almost shrunk into an ordinary man. If it weren’t for the God sparkling in his eyes amongst his mess of hair, he might have even been mistaken as common. Unable to shake off his own mortal coils, Daniel was, to the trained eye, nothing more than the exemplar of fetid traditionalism and stagnant security.
In his squalid state, Mozart did not notice himself falling, only Daniel rising high above him. It unsettled them both, so Daniel slid down next to him on the ground; prostrate only because he felt God should know he is not a guiltless man.
“Mediocre.”
“The Patron Saint of Mediocrity, please.”
An insane giggle.
“I’m the best.”
----------
Y Fin!
Secondo Il Dio-Rivalry
Oh, Australia and it's pedophiles.
(just kidding, we're all vanilla over here, even the convicts! [as if there's anything but])
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“So, how are we going to handle this?” Ron Radford, a scruffy man in his mid forties hunched over a large mahogany desk. He held his reddish face groggily, fingers sinking into the extra fat around his eyes. Director of the Australian National Gallery, 5 years running. Impressive if not for the fact it was his mother’s generous ‘contribution’ that got him that position. Generally the job wasn’t too hard for the unmotivated man, but also sub-heading Customer Services became, as of late, more tedious than his stuffed head could deal with. Running on four hours of sleep, three cups of coffee, two donuts and one aspirin, the only thing he wanted to do was solve the problem, and fast.
Today was not a day for art.
“Well…we could just eliminate the problem.” Second chairman David Hennings, mid thirties, relatively handsome and dangerous old-fashioned. His great grandfather had been a previous Director, and he was not going to see his family’s established values go down the drain without a fight.
“No, no. It would cause too much upset. This must be treated reasonably.” Co-Head of Customer Services, Andrew Bailey. Served for 15 years, it showing heavily in the wrinkles around his mouth. He would have looked Santa-like if not for these frown lines- they took away any jolliness anyone might have perceived from the pleasantly plump 53 year old.
“Cause too much upset?! Are you mad? It’s because of all these upset people that we’re even here right now! We have no choice but to take down the exhibit.”
“Oh, do try to be sensible, David. It’s only your ‘high-class’ clientele that have been making a fuss; everyone else loves him.”
“And it’s those ‘clientele’, Andrew, that keeps this business running. Do you know how much we received in donations from this ‘high class’? Do you?”
“This isn’t a business, it’s a museum…”
“Fifty thousand, Andrew. Now if five hundred grand doesn’t qualify a little catering to their needs, I don’t know what does.”
“Now look here, I—“
“Gentlemen, please.” Daniel held out his hands, silencing the bickering men. As Ron’s official assistant, he took the role as mediator in these types of discussions. He being the perceivably wise person he is, he could usually bend the situation to an outcome most profitable to him. An opportunity he would not miss out on now.
“Thank you Daniel. This meeting is giving me a migraine.” The Director rubbed his grubby fingers all over his face. “You three come to a decision and call me about it this afternoon. I’m going back home to sleep.” The businessmen sat quietly as their superior stood groggily and left the room, then came back again to retrieve his forgotten briefcase. As soon as the door clicked shut, the bickering continued.
“Gentlemen, please! We have much more important things to do than have a hissy fit over such a trivial matter.” Daniel stood from one of the chairs facing the expensive desk and began to pace, holding the attention of the other two closely.
“You heard Mr. Radford. We have to have this resolved by the afternoon.”
“How can we come to a decision by then?”
“Well, it’s true we can’t just pull the exhibit; we have no reasonable grounds to. As much as the public may hate it, unless one of them threatens harm on the establishment or anyone else, it stays.” He covered his mouth to hide the grin that was rapidly growing. “However…”
“However what?” David furrowed his eyebrows and tried to see the idea behind his colleague’s contemplative face.
Daniel continued. “Do you remember the last modern exhibit we had—the one by the twitchy Canadian?” The two nodded.
“Yes, he was banned from the Gallery because they found evidence of subliminal sexual messages in his work—mostly pedophilic—but what does that have to do…”
The lights went off in their heads simultaneously, looking at each other then back at Daniel.
“Let’s get that evaluator back in to ‘analyze’ Zee’s work. I think, if presented with the right…considerations, he might read into it just the way we want him to.” The grin was full-blown now. He couldn’t help it.
Maybe God was looking out for him after all.
----------
(just kidding, we're all vanilla over here, even the convicts! [as if there's anything but])
----------
“So, how are we going to handle this?” Ron Radford, a scruffy man in his mid forties hunched over a large mahogany desk. He held his reddish face groggily, fingers sinking into the extra fat around his eyes. Director of the Australian National Gallery, 5 years running. Impressive if not for the fact it was his mother’s generous ‘contribution’ that got him that position. Generally the job wasn’t too hard for the unmotivated man, but also sub-heading Customer Services became, as of late, more tedious than his stuffed head could deal with. Running on four hours of sleep, three cups of coffee, two donuts and one aspirin, the only thing he wanted to do was solve the problem, and fast.
Today was not a day for art.
“Well…we could just eliminate the problem.” Second chairman David Hennings, mid thirties, relatively handsome and dangerous old-fashioned. His great grandfather had been a previous Director, and he was not going to see his family’s established values go down the drain without a fight.
“No, no. It would cause too much upset. This must be treated reasonably.” Co-Head of Customer Services, Andrew Bailey. Served for 15 years, it showing heavily in the wrinkles around his mouth. He would have looked Santa-like if not for these frown lines- they took away any jolliness anyone might have perceived from the pleasantly plump 53 year old.
“Cause too much upset?! Are you mad? It’s because of all these upset people that we’re even here right now! We have no choice but to take down the exhibit.”
“Oh, do try to be sensible, David. It’s only your ‘high-class’ clientele that have been making a fuss; everyone else loves him.”
“And it’s those ‘clientele’, Andrew, that keeps this business running. Do you know how much we received in donations from this ‘high class’? Do you?”
“This isn’t a business, it’s a museum…”
“Fifty thousand, Andrew. Now if five hundred grand doesn’t qualify a little catering to their needs, I don’t know what does.”
“Now look here, I—“
“Gentlemen, please.” Daniel held out his hands, silencing the bickering men. As Ron’s official assistant, he took the role as mediator in these types of discussions. He being the perceivably wise person he is, he could usually bend the situation to an outcome most profitable to him. An opportunity he would not miss out on now.
“Thank you Daniel. This meeting is giving me a migraine.” The Director rubbed his grubby fingers all over his face. “You three come to a decision and call me about it this afternoon. I’m going back home to sleep.” The businessmen sat quietly as their superior stood groggily and left the room, then came back again to retrieve his forgotten briefcase. As soon as the door clicked shut, the bickering continued.
“Gentlemen, please! We have much more important things to do than have a hissy fit over such a trivial matter.” Daniel stood from one of the chairs facing the expensive desk and began to pace, holding the attention of the other two closely.
“You heard Mr. Radford. We have to have this resolved by the afternoon.”
“How can we come to a decision by then?”
“Well, it’s true we can’t just pull the exhibit; we have no reasonable grounds to. As much as the public may hate it, unless one of them threatens harm on the establishment or anyone else, it stays.” He covered his mouth to hide the grin that was rapidly growing. “However…”
“However what?” David furrowed his eyebrows and tried to see the idea behind his colleague’s contemplative face.
Daniel continued. “Do you remember the last modern exhibit we had—the one by the twitchy Canadian?” The two nodded.
“Yes, he was banned from the Gallery because they found evidence of subliminal sexual messages in his work—mostly pedophilic—but what does that have to do…”
The lights went off in their heads simultaneously, looking at each other then back at Daniel.
“Let’s get that evaluator back in to ‘analyze’ Zee’s work. I think, if presented with the right…considerations, he might read into it just the way we want him to.” The grin was full-blown now. He couldn’t help it.
Maybe God was looking out for him after all.
----------
Secondo Il Dio-Religion
Salieri was kind of crazy. And deluded. And sad.
Ah well. No one's perfect (so stop trying).
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“Your favor has shifted, God. I can feel it inside me. In my bones the change has made me stiffer. I am less free, less able to produce my—our—work. I have been stuck for weeks; nothing inspires me anymore. No age-ripened grandmother or peach-soft girl stir up images that give me a Revelation feeling. It’s all empty. Why won’t you make me feel whole, God? Let yourself into me. Let yourself shine through me and onto a canvas for everyone to see. To love and to worship like I worship you. Your absence hurts me more than any woman’s has. As few as of them as there have been…
“Oh God, why are you doing this to me? You know how much I love you, how much I adore you. You know it’s Your image I paint under. You know it’s You I’m trying to see in all of my portraits; you know You are in my thoughts with every stroke. You know I cannot paint without You with me.
“So why have your given yourself to him? Why are you letting yourself be prostituted by his ugly hands, his heavy, uneven strokes that somehow speak only of You?
“I just don’t understand.
“Why him and not me?”
In the dimness of candles burning, no one answered.
----------
Ah well. No one's perfect (so stop trying).
----------
“Your favor has shifted, God. I can feel it inside me. In my bones the change has made me stiffer. I am less free, less able to produce my—our—work. I have been stuck for weeks; nothing inspires me anymore. No age-ripened grandmother or peach-soft girl stir up images that give me a Revelation feeling. It’s all empty. Why won’t you make me feel whole, God? Let yourself into me. Let yourself shine through me and onto a canvas for everyone to see. To love and to worship like I worship you. Your absence hurts me more than any woman’s has. As few as of them as there have been…
“Oh God, why are you doing this to me? You know how much I love you, how much I adore you. You know it’s Your image I paint under. You know it’s You I’m trying to see in all of my portraits; you know You are in my thoughts with every stroke. You know I cannot paint without You with me.
“So why have your given yourself to him? Why are you letting yourself be prostituted by his ugly hands, his heavy, uneven strokes that somehow speak only of You?
“I just don’t understand.
“Why him and not me?”
In the dimness of candles burning, no one answered.
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Wednesday, March 14, 2007
Secondo Il Dio - Genius
Again, awful names. Hatehatehate.
------
Too curious for his own good Daniel might have been, but voyeuristic he was not.
Receiving word that Zee (it was a rare occasion he could actually remember his full name) was working on a new series for his next exhibit, Daniel took the liberty of traveling to his colleague’s home to see it for himself—under the pretense of discussing reviews for his last show. He went unannounced, hoping to catch the artist by surprise and maybe see a little more than he wanted him to. In this respect, he got exactly what he wanted, but in a different way entirely.
No one greeted him at the door after several loud knocks, so he peered around the side of the house and saw a small shack in the backyard. He strolled over to it, Art Magazine in hand, and saw through the slightly open door more of
Zebedeo than he had ever wanted to see.
The giggles and grunts that trickles through the crack suddenly stopped, and as Daniel stood flat against the outside wall, too afraid to move, he heard a confused gasp and the sound of something heavy falling to the floor, followed by an “oomph!”
“Ow! Zebby, what was that for?”
“I’ve had an idea, hold on.”
“Humph, every time…”
“Be flattered, Connie dear. You’re one of my main sources of inspiration these days. My little… passionate muse.” Zee spoke in a slightly far-off voice, and Daniel could tell by the scratching noises that he was sketching on canvas. ‘This must be his studio.’
“So you use me for sex, then?”
“Don’t be silly. I use you for other things too. The cooking, the cleaning…”
“Uh! Chauvinistic pig!
“Oink oink! Now stay still, I need to see the shading on your leg.”
Only beginning to wrap his head around things, Daniel barely noticed the silence that took over the shanty-looking hovel. ‘I must have the wrong house. This can’t be him. It simply can’t be…’
Disgusted but determined, he carefully peeked his head around the doorframe. What he saw made his heart lighten and his head grow heavy.
It was only a sketch, but that didn’t matter. Daniel could already see it for what it was: a masterpiece.
It was the woman—Connie, who he could see sitting to the left, tapping her fingers against the chair she sat naked in—but far more intricate and…beautifully twisted than the reality. The shapes and textures were all different, but somehow they just worked, bringing to his work the life Daniel had strived for, but never achieved. It was enchanting. It was stunning. And it was only a sketch, but already so flawless.
‘How does he do it?’
Usually one can tell a lot about someone from their appearance, but looking at Zee—an interestingly featured, frizzy red headed (Daniel shuddered) sprig—made him want to pinch himself. No one this obnoxiously eccentric could create such beauty. It just wasn’t how the world worked.
“Don’t move, I’ve almost got it.” Connie sighed, and a few pencil strokes later Zee was contented. “There. Done for now.” He stretched and yawned loudly, scratching himself. The pretty young woman jumped up from her seat, wasting no time crawling back on top of the acclaimed genius.
“So, where were we?” She bit his head playfully.
“Actually, sweet meat, I’m kind of hungry. Won’t you go whip up something scrumptious for us? It’s nearly lunch time.”
“You beast!” At first her face was wrought with indignation, but as soon as Zee took the opportunity to attack her exposed waist, the room was once again filled with the giggles of a man and a woman too young for their skin.
Daniel took his eyes away from the lighthearted scene and pushed himself back against the wall. He wasn’t sure he’d be standing otherwise.
‘What is this? What is this pain? What is this need in his art? Forever unfulfillable, yet fulfilling him who sees it, utterly. Is it God’s need? Could it be His…?’
The burning ate away at his insides. This was as close as he could get to Greatness: through the crack of a shanty door.
‘And from the hand of no one more than an obscene child!’
He knew, without a doubt, he must destroy this ‘Zeus’.
But how to kill a God…
-------
------
Too curious for his own good Daniel might have been, but voyeuristic he was not.
Receiving word that Zee (it was a rare occasion he could actually remember his full name) was working on a new series for his next exhibit, Daniel took the liberty of traveling to his colleague’s home to see it for himself—under the pretense of discussing reviews for his last show. He went unannounced, hoping to catch the artist by surprise and maybe see a little more than he wanted him to. In this respect, he got exactly what he wanted, but in a different way entirely.
No one greeted him at the door after several loud knocks, so he peered around the side of the house and saw a small shack in the backyard. He strolled over to it, Art Magazine in hand, and saw through the slightly open door more of
Zebedeo than he had ever wanted to see.
The giggles and grunts that trickles through the crack suddenly stopped, and as Daniel stood flat against the outside wall, too afraid to move, he heard a confused gasp and the sound of something heavy falling to the floor, followed by an “oomph!”
“Ow! Zebby, what was that for?”
“I’ve had an idea, hold on.”
“Humph, every time…”
“Be flattered, Connie dear. You’re one of my main sources of inspiration these days. My little… passionate muse.” Zee spoke in a slightly far-off voice, and Daniel could tell by the scratching noises that he was sketching on canvas. ‘This must be his studio.’
“So you use me for sex, then?”
“Don’t be silly. I use you for other things too. The cooking, the cleaning…”
“Uh! Chauvinistic pig!
“Oink oink! Now stay still, I need to see the shading on your leg.”
Only beginning to wrap his head around things, Daniel barely noticed the silence that took over the shanty-looking hovel. ‘I must have the wrong house. This can’t be him. It simply can’t be…’
Disgusted but determined, he carefully peeked his head around the doorframe. What he saw made his heart lighten and his head grow heavy.
It was only a sketch, but that didn’t matter. Daniel could already see it for what it was: a masterpiece.
It was the woman—Connie, who he could see sitting to the left, tapping her fingers against the chair she sat naked in—but far more intricate and…beautifully twisted than the reality. The shapes and textures were all different, but somehow they just worked, bringing to his work the life Daniel had strived for, but never achieved. It was enchanting. It was stunning. And it was only a sketch, but already so flawless.
‘How does he do it?’
Usually one can tell a lot about someone from their appearance, but looking at Zee—an interestingly featured, frizzy red headed (Daniel shuddered) sprig—made him want to pinch himself. No one this obnoxiously eccentric could create such beauty. It just wasn’t how the world worked.
“Don’t move, I’ve almost got it.” Connie sighed, and a few pencil strokes later Zee was contented. “There. Done for now.” He stretched and yawned loudly, scratching himself. The pretty young woman jumped up from her seat, wasting no time crawling back on top of the acclaimed genius.
“So, where were we?” She bit his head playfully.
“Actually, sweet meat, I’m kind of hungry. Won’t you go whip up something scrumptious for us? It’s nearly lunch time.”
“You beast!” At first her face was wrought with indignation, but as soon as Zee took the opportunity to attack her exposed waist, the room was once again filled with the giggles of a man and a woman too young for their skin.
Daniel took his eyes away from the lighthearted scene and pushed himself back against the wall. He wasn’t sure he’d be standing otherwise.
‘What is this? What is this pain? What is this need in his art? Forever unfulfillable, yet fulfilling him who sees it, utterly. Is it God’s need? Could it be His…?’
The burning ate away at his insides. This was as close as he could get to Greatness: through the crack of a shanty door.
‘And from the hand of no one more than an obscene child!’
He knew, without a doubt, he must destroy this ‘Zeus’.
But how to kill a God…
-------
Monday, March 12, 2007
Secondo Il Dio - Jealousy
In response to Amadeus.
Daniel Dane is such an awful name, but it has it's purposes, I promise.
So is Zebedeo. Again, purpose.
-----
Exhibition night. Daniel Dane’s favorite night of the month. Ever since his permanent placement in the National Gallery, Daniel has rewarded himself once a month to viewing his own masterpieces. It gives him such satisfaction, wandering down the pristine white halls where the artwork of infamy rested quietly. And then, hanging just to the right, the canvas touched by his very own brushes, sat on his easel for months, adorned the colors he himself mixed. A piece of his soul, preserved forever on a museum wall. He couldn’t have been happier.
Besides admiring himself, Daniel also liked to play a spy on the public. Instead of strutting into the gallery, dressed to a T, hair combed sleekly down and glasses placed just so, he became the role of—if you will—the commoner. A loose work shirt, un-pressed slacks and scuffed leather shoes made up his casual attire—though his hair was still combed back. He simply could not stand unkempt hair. He arrived n the front, paid the $12.50 (discount membership), picked up one of the business card he designed and supplied, and strolled casually in, making sure to view all other pieces as well as his own to not tip off his secret identity. The thrill of his own little masquerade mixed with the enormous swell of pride in his chest made it worth losing sleep the night previous.
Later in the evening, he eventually made his way to the free refreshments, heading straight to the desserts. His ears perked to a conversation next to him as he surveyed the assorted tarts.
“—really quite good. His brush stroke techniques are impeccable, and it’s obvious he knows what he’s doing. He’s a great artist.” A boisterous woman commented to a rather small man next to her.
“Yes, you’re right; his technique is essentially flawless. Dane—“ Daniel smiled around a forkful of pavlova “—is undoubtedly one of the most well trained painters of today. It’s simple fact.”
This was the perk of appearing as the proletariat. He was able to hear what the people really thought of him. Only twice had he ran into a disapproving remark; they’d stung, as all criticism does, but what are two in comparison to the hundreds that stopped to smile at his work everyday? He was still loved, and that was all that mattered. Moving onto the cream-filled pastries, he was not expecting the next remark, and almost fell over from the surprise of it.
“But, have you heard of that new modern painter—what’s his name—Zebedeo? Signs all his pieces with ‘Zeus’? Apparently he’s got a lot of spark and life to his paintings—something this Daniel sorely lacks.”
Unfamiliar pain in Daniel’s stomach and back of his throat made the painter twitch and turn his eyes sharply to the couple; but he continued to shovel small chocolates into his mouth.
“Yes, one never does truly feel as though he is a part of the scene in front of him. That is the point of art, after all, isn’t it?” Daniel’s hands tightened around a éclair, the thick icing oozing out the ends. “We should have a look at this…what did you say his name was? Zeb-something? What strange parents he must have had… He does have an exhibition going, doesn’t he?”
“Oh, yes. Down in the local arts center. Not too reputable, but I hear the director of the National Gallery has asked him to put together a showing in the new Modern wing. And to think, he’s only in his mid twenties!”
“Incredible, really. Well, we’ll have to keep our schedules free for the opening then, won’t we? Now let’s go, dear. I’m suffocating from the pretentiousness in the air.”
The two art-goers walked airily away; unaware the clenching of the artist’s fist mirrored that of his stomach.
-----
1/5
Daniel Dane is such an awful name, but it has it's purposes, I promise.
So is Zebedeo. Again, purpose.
-----
Exhibition night. Daniel Dane’s favorite night of the month. Ever since his permanent placement in the National Gallery, Daniel has rewarded himself once a month to viewing his own masterpieces. It gives him such satisfaction, wandering down the pristine white halls where the artwork of infamy rested quietly. And then, hanging just to the right, the canvas touched by his very own brushes, sat on his easel for months, adorned the colors he himself mixed. A piece of his soul, preserved forever on a museum wall. He couldn’t have been happier.
Besides admiring himself, Daniel also liked to play a spy on the public. Instead of strutting into the gallery, dressed to a T, hair combed sleekly down and glasses placed just so, he became the role of—if you will—the commoner. A loose work shirt, un-pressed slacks and scuffed leather shoes made up his casual attire—though his hair was still combed back. He simply could not stand unkempt hair. He arrived n the front, paid the $12.50 (discount membership), picked up one of the business card he designed and supplied, and strolled casually in, making sure to view all other pieces as well as his own to not tip off his secret identity. The thrill of his own little masquerade mixed with the enormous swell of pride in his chest made it worth losing sleep the night previous.
Later in the evening, he eventually made his way to the free refreshments, heading straight to the desserts. His ears perked to a conversation next to him as he surveyed the assorted tarts.
“—really quite good. His brush stroke techniques are impeccable, and it’s obvious he knows what he’s doing. He’s a great artist.” A boisterous woman commented to a rather small man next to her.
“Yes, you’re right; his technique is essentially flawless. Dane—“ Daniel smiled around a forkful of pavlova “—is undoubtedly one of the most well trained painters of today. It’s simple fact.”
This was the perk of appearing as the proletariat. He was able to hear what the people really thought of him. Only twice had he ran into a disapproving remark; they’d stung, as all criticism does, but what are two in comparison to the hundreds that stopped to smile at his work everyday? He was still loved, and that was all that mattered. Moving onto the cream-filled pastries, he was not expecting the next remark, and almost fell over from the surprise of it.
“But, have you heard of that new modern painter—what’s his name—Zebedeo? Signs all his pieces with ‘Zeus’? Apparently he’s got a lot of spark and life to his paintings—something this Daniel sorely lacks.”
Unfamiliar pain in Daniel’s stomach and back of his throat made the painter twitch and turn his eyes sharply to the couple; but he continued to shovel small chocolates into his mouth.
“Yes, one never does truly feel as though he is a part of the scene in front of him. That is the point of art, after all, isn’t it?” Daniel’s hands tightened around a éclair, the thick icing oozing out the ends. “We should have a look at this…what did you say his name was? Zeb-something? What strange parents he must have had… He does have an exhibition going, doesn’t he?”
“Oh, yes. Down in the local arts center. Not too reputable, but I hear the director of the National Gallery has asked him to put together a showing in the new Modern wing. And to think, he’s only in his mid twenties!”
“Incredible, really. Well, we’ll have to keep our schedules free for the opening then, won’t we? Now let’s go, dear. I’m suffocating from the pretentiousness in the air.”
The two art-goers walked airily away; unaware the clenching of the artist’s fist mirrored that of his stomach.
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