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.

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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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