Jun 21, 2020 18:30:00 GMT -6
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he's a self-absorbed twat sometimes
he's a self-absorbed twat sometimes
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While he had dismantled most of his father’s excesses, Oz had left ones like this intact.
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If asked, Oz would probably say that it had something to do with culture and education. Claim that the money would somehow contribute to the betterment of future generations.
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While that PR nonsense was true enough, he had never been a patron of the arts. And, no matter how hard his mother tried to make it otherwise, he could not tell the difference between a Vermeer and a Botticelli. What he craved was an unraveling of the mysteries of the universe. To one day be the violinist who coaxed melodies from the universe. To become as synonymous with science as Einstein or Darwin.
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Which of course left some asking: why keep his family’s name on an art museum?
[break][break]
The real answer was simple and far less sanctimonious. Ozni, like his father and grandfather before him, was a prideful creature. Something about seeing his surname nestled in among great works of art made his spine tingle. It was why he trailed his fingers across the engraved plaques that dotted the walls—even if it meant he’d be scrubbing his hands raw later. That was one reason you’d find him sitting on a bench in the Modern Art wing of one of the city’s more popular museums.
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The other reason? The place was quieter than a tomb and, since everybody knew he was a middling fan of the arts, nobody ever looked for him here.
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Some tiny part of him also hoped being surrounded by all this creativity would do something to get his own juices flowing. But, mostly, he was just looking to avoid his harpy of an EA for a couple of hours.
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Anyone walking in would find the dark-skinned man sitting cross-legged on a bench in the center of the room. A bright green café straw clutched between clumsy fangs as he sucked at the dregs of a long-finished latte. His cellphone, never out of reach, was crushed against the plastic.
[break][break]
Sky blue eyes, however, were focused on the painting before him.
[break][break]
It was a canvas filled with three blue circles. An even darker blue background sat behind it. Though a lot of the paintings were named super serious things, this one didn’t have a title at all.
[break][break]
It was also the only one he was unable to make up some pretentious message for.
His contemplation was interrupted by the sound of footsteps.
[break][break]
Taking one last drag from the foam bubbles at the bottom of his cup, Ozni posed a question to the room: “What do you think it means?”
While he had dismantled most of his father’s excesses, Oz had left ones like this intact.
[break][break]
If asked, Oz would probably say that it had something to do with culture and education. Claim that the money would somehow contribute to the betterment of future generations.
[break][break]
While that PR nonsense was true enough, he had never been a patron of the arts. And, no matter how hard his mother tried to make it otherwise, he could not tell the difference between a Vermeer and a Botticelli. What he craved was an unraveling of the mysteries of the universe. To one day be the violinist who coaxed melodies from the universe. To become as synonymous with science as Einstein or Darwin.
[break][break]
Which of course left some asking: why keep his family’s name on an art museum?
[break][break]
The real answer was simple and far less sanctimonious. Ozni, like his father and grandfather before him, was a prideful creature. Something about seeing his surname nestled in among great works of art made his spine tingle. It was why he trailed his fingers across the engraved plaques that dotted the walls—even if it meant he’d be scrubbing his hands raw later. That was one reason you’d find him sitting on a bench in the Modern Art wing of one of the city’s more popular museums.
[break][break]
The other reason? The place was quieter than a tomb and, since everybody knew he was a middling fan of the arts, nobody ever looked for him here.
[break][break]
Some tiny part of him also hoped being surrounded by all this creativity would do something to get his own juices flowing. But, mostly, he was just looking to avoid his harpy of an EA for a couple of hours.
[break][break]
Anyone walking in would find the dark-skinned man sitting cross-legged on a bench in the center of the room. A bright green café straw clutched between clumsy fangs as he sucked at the dregs of a long-finished latte. His cellphone, never out of reach, was crushed against the plastic.
[break][break]
Sky blue eyes, however, were focused on the painting before him.
[break][break]
It was a canvas filled with three blue circles. An even darker blue background sat behind it. Though a lot of the paintings were named super serious things, this one didn’t have a title at all.
[break][break]
It was also the only one he was unable to make up some pretentious message for.
His contemplation was interrupted by the sound of footsteps.
[break][break]
Taking one last drag from the foam bubbles at the bottom of his cup, Ozni posed a question to the room: “What do you think it means?”
[attr="class","pwfCredit"]SELKIE
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