u_can_have_it_4_a_song | Ephemeral Truths [Verity]

"Well, a piece that's donated is the museum's property. Some pieces are on loan, or are being offered for the museum to acquire. That's actually the case with these two, in fact."

Ah, well. She doesn't know art, and she's not surprised the idea isn't worth considering. "Someone wanted you to buy them? For big bucks, I'm guessing." She glances over at Mr. Suit again before asking quietly, "Does he have more than his reputation on the line?"

Suit caught that. He's been keeping an ear out for such intimations (for some reason) and thunders, "how dare you? I am an impartial third party!" Which is such a lie.

Well then. Verity doesn't say it out loud, but Schön knows that twitch and the lingering look of pain afterward.

"Margaret, shouldn't someone call the police?"

He does indeed know the look, and so keeps a wary eye on Mr. Suit. The man's reputation will go down in flames, now.

Margaret sighs. "Yes, I'm afraid I'll have to." Oh, look, Mr. Suit's ruddy complexion is suddenly draining to gray.

"It'll be okay, Margaret. But the sooner it's done, the sooner they're gone."

Although, now she's wondering just how well her old ID from a world that doesn't exist anymore is going to work for her here...

Almost worth it to see someone like Mr. Suit go down. "Schön, have you worked out the... bits you needed to?"

She nods and, gathering herself, excuses herself to go use a phone. Mr. Suit is still blustering, but he's losing wind fast, and at Verity's question Schön turns to her with a smile. "Indeed. Shall we be on our way? I promised you a chance to take in the exhibits, I believe."

Part of her wants to do the good-citizen thing, wait for the ~~cops~~bobbies, give a statement, make sure Mr. Suit doesn't take off...

But that's not an option for either of them, is it? "Let's, please. Sorry if this has been disappointing for you." He knows how she can get around art, so she'll be taking a firm hold of his arm now. "It's a pity the forger--or forgers--are wasting their time with this instead of making their own art. It's really pretty."

They've been the catalyst, setting the story in motion. Mr. Suit is far too attached to his status and various holdings to run effectively, so he'll be caught whether he runs or not. Schön gives Verity's hand on his arm a reassuring pat. "Oh, no, this hasn't been disappointing at all. The truth came out, after all, and who could mind that? As to the forgers, work of this caliber is often the work of people seeking stimulating challenges while at the same time needing money enough to support their lifestyles."

Out to the public galleries, then, and the art on display? Or would Verity like to browse the back rooms a little more?

She knows when to go out.

"You mean, people who're bored and need to prove they're cleverer than everyone else?" She sighs, and has to admit, "This is a better use of their talents than trying the whole world-domination thing, I guess."

Poking around in the forbidden places is tempting, and he shouldn't mistake her turning toward the public galleries for her not feeling that temptation. But if they were to get caught there, while the place is full of police? How bad would that look? Maybe Margaret will give them a private tour another time to say thanks. She can wait for that.

Verity always did have sense.

"Indeed," he both confirms and agrees. "It's amazing how well some of them respond to more legitimate outlets for their creativity, once somebody finds them one."

A tour some other time can almost certainly be assured, especially as Schön has now seen her interest in those forbidden back rooms. For now, though, there is a museum full of art to appreciate, and Verity has a companion who can offer some little tidbit of insight about virtually every piece there.

She hums at the comment and thinks for a while as they move through the crowds to whichever gallery he wants to start in. There's nothing idle about him, not even his comments. He might not mean to reveal so much, but... he knows who he's with. "You have something in mind for this one?"

It's like having her own personal docent. All the time she's been spending around art and art lovers the last few months has been paying off; she has more to say than a passing remark on whether she finds it 'pretty'. Color and light, lines and technique, she's starting to understand the ways they're used and how that changes from artist to artist. There might even be a comment referencing something they saw some other time in a different museum.

Will wonders never cease?

That's part of why she's so fun to play word-games with. She picks up on the little clues (including Clue Zero: everything is a clue). "I do. High-end replicas, for a start. There's a class of people who look at masterpieces and say, 'oh, it's very pretty, if only the colors weren't so faded, or the paint weren't cracking.'" He gives a sardonic smile. "Moderately good taste, but with the expectation that everything be shiny and new. So, give it to them--they know from the start that it isn't the original, so there's no question of fraud, and they get a masterpiece at a fraction of the cost--tens or hundreds of thousands, instead of millions." He pauses, then adds, "and don't think I didn't pick up on that idea of yours. Margaret may have been too distraught, but it could make for an intriguing experience."

Personal docent, indeed; Schön is delighted by the way Verity is picking up the artistic lexicon, and grows livelier and more encouraging the more he sees. Truly, art is a language, and while Verity started with "quiero/no quiero," her vocabulary has been growing by leaps and bounds.

By the time they've worked their way through the first gallery, he's sporting a zestful grin and a spring in his step.

It's fun for both of them. She likes having a chance to put all her observations to use, instead of standing back while more important people do things and occasionally narrate to her. And given how easy it'd be for her to sit back and stop thinking entirely, letting all these weirdos she's surrounded herself with drag her along through their lives instead of trying to live her own, the mental stimulation is good for her.

"Well, what good is having a Dutch Renaissance still life if it doesn't match the drapes?" She says this deadpan, but with a delicate arching of her eyebrows to make it clear she's joking, she's only joking. "Is good taste something we're born with, or is it cultivated? Maybe your lovely replicas can help smooth the way to better things for people." She's doing that thing again, where she tries to nudge him toward being a better person. But if he's working toward his own self-interests at the same time, can he really object?

"You think so?" She brightens at that. "Maybe London isn't the best place for it. It would've been huge in New York..." Give her a moment, she's okay. "Maybe a city with a good sense of humor."

She's had some good and patient teachers. Some of the technical terms still escape her, but she's seeing more and she feels safe expressing her opinions. The technicalities will come, or not, and either way is fine. She hopes. When they've finished with the first gallery, she remarks, "You're in a good mood." And she's happy to see it.

That thinking, and imagining, for herself is a good thing is a point on which she and Schön agree.

He laughs, arching a brow in response. "Mm, difficult to say. Perhaps it's neither a talent, nor a skill, but an outcome--one may be talented, and have good taste without difficulty, while another labors and strives to sift gold from dross, but arrives at good taste in the end. Hm?" He doesn't mind the people who are still on the journey. It's those who turn their noses up at the very idea who he counts as enemies.

His hand covers hers on his arm, silent comfort, as she recovers from the thought of New York. "A city with a young soul, indeed."

When she remarks on his good mood, he flashes her a grin. "Well, the day is going quite well, I think. And here we are, in the midst of art and people who appreciate it, appreciating it ourselves. You were a delight back there, by the way. 'I thought you said one was real,' the look on his face!"

"But shouldn't taste, like art, be constantly evolving? Maybe it's a process. A give-and-take, individual versus society, about what's 'good' and accepted. What society says is good isn't always to a person's personal tastes. And if someone just really, really loves velvet Elvis, is that so wrong? The fact that something moves them is good, right?" She got to help foil a forgery crime, she's getting to enjoy art, there's friendly philosophical debate... give her chocolate, and it may be the best day ever. "And who decides what's 'good' anyway? Not everyone's going to agree that a bunch of old paintbrushes glued together to make a sculpture counts as art."

He gets a small but grateful smile for the show of support. "Like you."

The appreciation of her performance, and that grin, get a warm smile from her. "I have to admit, it was nice to catch him out. It's been a while since anyone called me a child, and I'm not even wearing pigtails today."

Just look at him, listening to Verity talk about the relationship of taste with society, the possibility of a give-and-take and an evolution over time, and grinning fit to burst! "Mm, but then you have movements like the functionalists, who push ideas of spartan design to the point where even the Spartans might balk. Think of the blandest rectangular gray slab of a building you ever saw, and imagine the mind which calls that its artistic ideal. Some segment of society says that's good because it's efficient and cheap, some critics even laud its austerity... but what does it stimulate in us? Hm? There, I think, is a litmus test for art."

He chuckles, replying, "oh, not so. I've a very old, old soul. I just like to keep it spry."

"I'd suspected he might have a financial motive to support the one he thought was real, beyond his reputation, but I couldn't be certain. Thank you for catching him out on that, as well."

He's adorable when he's this happy. "But it means something to them. If no art has value unless everyone understands it, or unless everyone sees it in the exact same way, then no art has any value at all." Notice she's carefully not defending that kind of crap as anything she likes. Bleck.

"I think you may have lived a long time, but you're still young inside. Eternally youthful." Schön as eternal youth explains so much about his behavior: the cold way he acts toward strangers, the instant hostility he feels toward anyone who encroaches on what he considers 'his', his bouts of generosity, his love of bright and shiny things. But it sounds nicer when she doesn't say those parts. "Some people would say that's the ideal."

She nods and gives him a playful nudge. "You're welcome. You and he have a history, I take it? Did you really bring me here to ruin his day?"

Strange, isn't it? "Alright, I'll concede that art needn't be understood by everyone in the same, rigid way. Surely, though, there is room somewhere in all the vast canvas of possibility," see what he did there, "for the simply wrong?"

"Mm, a better dressed Peter Pan? 'I may grow older,'" he quotes, "'but I'll never grow up.'" It sounds much, much better to call Schön eternally youthful than a big child, certainly.

He chuckles at the nudge. "We~ell, not just to ruin his day, but it was a likely bonus. When I was just making contact with this world, dealing a few pieces to establish myself, he dealt me a considerable blow and gained great renown because in this world, Monet was left-handed, and the piece I was selling had been painted with the right."

Yes, yes, he's very clever. "Yes. Of course. But I'm pretty sure the National Gallery's not going to invite a cannibal orgy performance art group for a residency, so I think we can safely say it's pretty unlikely to happen."

And boy, is she ever hoping that no such thing exists in the history of ever.

"Much better dressed. But you'd look good in green." And this is about as much as she knows about Peter Pan, so hopefully he won't press the point much further.

"Really? That's funny. Such an odd thing to have different with no real impact on someone's life... wait, people can tell whether a painting was done right or left-handed?"

Too clever for his own good, probably. "Now that, I will concede."

"You think so? I may have to experiment with it, sometime," he muses. "Surprise everyone."

"Oh, yes. Subtle cues in the direction the ridges of the brushstrokes lean can indicate one hand or the other. Most wouldn't have noticed."

"It could be your next Samhain costume," she suggests. "Think you can find an actual pixie to play your Tinkerbelle?"

She considers that, looking down at her hands for a moment, subtly miming holding something in each before she gives a little nod. "That makes sense when you think about it." Lowering her voice, she adds, "And I'd love to know why you were trying to sell that painting here instead of where it came from."

The suggestion prompts a laugh. "Are you certain you wouldn't like the role? Or sensible Wendy, perhaps?" He may be teasing.

"Ah, but that's part of what I do," he explains, with a touch of pride. "I find things that aren't valued or wanted in one world, and bring them to another where they are. And a sad world it is, where the Impressionist school never sprung up."

"I think Wendy would be more believable," she admits with a smile, "but I'll do Tinkerbelle if the pixie dust really works." No problem at all for him, surely.

That thought gives her pause. All her lofty talk about art not meaning the same thing to everyone aside, how can Impressionism go unappreciated? "Sounds like a lucrative business for everyone," she admits. "What did they have instead?"

He grins, for she's just made a bargain with him. "Agreed." Now he just has ten months to source real pixie dust.

"Industrial Representationalism," he explains. "Sort of the bastard love-child of Soviet propaganda posters and Andy Warhol, a century early."

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