For all the time that he’d spent with Cosette in the quest for a single portrait, one would think that Benedict Smeethington would know a little more about art.
Alas, he was staring at the various paintings as he made his way around the estate at which the ball was taking place, and he had to admit that he knew almost nothing.
He could name colors, of course, and he knew about shading and perspective some, but in no universe would he ever be able to match the art critiquing that he’d overheard earlier in the evening. Comparing the likeness between the original and the work of art, arguing over lines and the feeling one gets when looking at a particular piece...
When Ben looked at art he felt nothing. Landscapes? Portraits of dead people? Portraits of live people that he didn’t know? Nothing. The closest that he’d felt to an emotion when looking at art was when he’d seen his own portrait, and even then he suspected it was more to do with the complicated situation with the artist over the (admittedly good, he at least knew that) art itself. There was no life in art. It was a moment in time, or a moment of fiction, captured for the world to see, but there was no way to interact with it like he’d prefer. It wasn’t like the night sky, ever changing and always new. And the more Ben stared at things, the more bored he became.
Or, he would be, if it weren’t for the fact that a beautiful blonde had made her way into the same room off of the hall that he had stumbled into. He was aware that he was taking a chance by starting their conversation in the way that he did, but Ben refused to give his opening line too much thought as he instead repeated, word-for-word, a question that he’d heard earlier.
“Do the lines in this piece feel off to you?”
@discnchant