They nodded. Absorbing his words as the rush of momentum left them and their pulse slowed to a steady rhythm. But, it was one thing after another, and after the distress of lateness, a new matter of vexation materialized: the Barrett case and the lawsuit against the Mary C. Argent Museum. It wasn’t as if Marie was looking for something to argue with Isaiah with—lord only knew that every other word that left their mouth was a thinly veiled act of aggression—but they had been over this before. Marie was a staunch supporter of Julie—a fraternizer with the mysterious foreign woman who had been bestowed with the title of Director seemingly out of left field. When it came to the controversial lawsuit, Marie was of the opinion that the Barretts had no right to claim ownership to a painting owned by the museum. Taking a deep breath, they blinked.
“He did, but there were a multitude of reasons why he resigned when he did,” they informed Isaiah, envisioning the past board meetings and the dreadful announcements. “He left several unattended matters for Julie to take care of… including this whole shenanigan with the Barretts…”
“I wouldn’t say so,” they retorted in regards to Julie Frost. “Have you ever seen her with her husband? Her son? She’s a completely different person once you get to know her. Fred was a good man but he was too… loose—too carefree. All that giddiness was from drinking and you just know that’s why the Argent was having all sort of trouble…”
Isaiah had been subject to dozens upon dozens of rants about the Argent—all courtesy of Marie. They denied any dislike of Mr. Umber, but they were polar opposites. Stiff from trauma and loss, Marie couldn’t understand the recklessness Mr. Umber engaged in when it came to museum security and preservation. His negligence didn’t go unnoticed, but more often than not, the curators and museum staff would carry on the museum like clockwork even if Mr. Umber wasn’t of a sober mind. It was decades of irksome mishaps, and Marie was relieved to see a professional take the museum under their wings.
“If it’s tedious and you don’t want to do it, don’t do it.” Resting their head on their hand, they waited for a server to pass so that they could order. “I’m sure the paintings are better suited remaining at the museum anyway—“
At the end of their sentence, they flagged down a waitress and ordered coffee.
“Compassion to people-- that’s easy.” Isaiah began. Of all the people he could say it to, of course he would be saying it to them. Marie was one of Isaiah’s closest confidantes, and while they were hardly a friend to him (as there was no one who meant more to Isaiah than himself), they were someone with a great knowledge of Isaiah and his inner mechanisms. “Frost can care about her children because they are her possessions. They are a part of herself, so caring for them is narcissism accompanied by a mere smokescreen of concern. Caring about things, now that’s what’s hard.”
To be entirely honest with himself, Isaiah could never understand why someone would care about other people or things in their life. Why should anything have meaning? Isaiah had long since established that the universe was a void, and that he was entirely alone in it. Life itself was just desperate race to validate oneself as much as possible until they keeled over. What was the point of trying to become something extraordinary when one could never bear witness to the legacy they would spend a lifetime creating?
Isaiah found art to be the purest example of this desperate struggle, a concentrated example of the human condition, a tangible cry into the void.
Maybe that was why he was so devoted to doing anything he could to protect its integrity.
Fingers began to toy with the cup, drumming on the porcelain and picking at chipping paint. Stimulation. “Frost can’t know what’s best for the art because the art isn’t a part of her. She can force herself to feel anything she wants-- concern, empathy, some carnal version of lust-- for the art, but she will never be connected to it the same way Eden or Jacob are. The art isn’t hers to feel for.” A chip of paint fell off his cup, and Isaiah pushed it in a figure eight on the table with his thumb.
“She may own them in a material sense, and she may win the case for their possession, but they will never be hers. They will always, to some degree, be strangers to her. Do you get it yet? These artworks are more than just art to the Barretts. They are living things. To Frost, they will only ever be canvas stretched over wooden frames.
“Is that really what you think is best for them, Marie? To be locked up behind plate glass that’s just about as cold as the looks they will receive until the museum is ultimately closed and they are pawned off, and they become owned, but not known, by someone else? Am I supposed to enable that cycle?”
It was funny how a faint tingling at the back of one’s throat could grow so rapidly to a nearly all-consuming desire. Discussing the issue of the lawsuit had made Isaiah unbelievably antsy, and considering the fact that he hadn’t consumed any narcotics in the last three hours, he was about to fall headfirst into some severe withdrawal. Another flake of paint chipped off, joining the other on the table and then under his thumb. He had to wait. If he left too soon, he would risk Marie’s suspicion.
Then again, would they care? Couldn’t they tell he was sober, that he had attempted to be sober?
Three minutes. He gave it three minutes until he caved. Another flake of paint.
gracieabrams
yousharknotpass
gamechangershow
titsay
