She knows he's right to call ones such as themselves the "privileged" nobles. Maybe their art truly acts to satisfy that innate desire; perhaps it does indeed scratch that particular itch that drives many to the verge of madness, obsession or apathy. The rules were set long before their birth, after all; they're the mere byproducts of generations upon generations of past artisans, and of the many rules they've set upon themselves to carry on and to impose. And yet, with art itself and technology progressing with much more momentum and speed compared to traditional, or chromatic, paintwork, it's quite difficult to imagine a category that remains untouchable, privileged for centuries to come.
And so, Clea thinks it's only fair to glance back at the ancient, most constricting dogmas with a tinge of doubt or wariness. Oh, but 'content', he boldly defines her. ❛ Mostly, yes. But contentment does not always mean I am satisfied. And yet, drafts often bore me; so unless I have to Paint something that requires retouches or further changes along the way, I try not to leave anything too unfinished behind, ❜ she smiles at the man before shifting her gaze to an imprecise spot on the wall on the left — the fond memory of her brother, a small thing all excitement and giggles, hopping with her inside a Canvas, ever promising to revisit his Gestrals' faces, never finding true fulfillment. Almost endearing, in that unaltered innocence. ❛ Who knows. I might have made for one insufferable Writer. Or maybe, the medium would've taught me patience. ❜
The notion itself sounds funny to a fault. Clea, a Writer... when she is certain she would not be as skilled with words as she is with colors, or clay. But that makes the woman even more glad that he's indulged her abstract vision — another life never to live, while comfortably sitting away from the busy and crowded parlor.
❛ Mutability can vex me. I've spent time and energies, not to mention parts of my soul, only to see my vision shift into something I can no longer fully control ? ❜ But at that, her blue eyes snap back in his direction. She thinks the concept would make her grow impatient. Refining, reworking. And again, at the tiniest change. It would turn into an endless cycle. The reins over her creations must stay firm, tight, to be moved under her very dictates and will. She studies his reactions, his gaze and gestures, with her honest reply laid bare for him to fully absorb. ❛ But I realize many Painters, and other Artisans, may consider it a prestige, if not a source of inspiration. ❜
Many do not grow impatient. Some may outright refuse to pin down their creations to a single purpose, or task — preserved, immutable in stasis, like exposed butterflies behind glass; how effortlessly cruel that sounds. That must be why a council is needed, at the end of the day. To temper the hands that wield the paintbrushes. To decide where indulgence ends and danger begins. She refrains from voicing that thought, though it lingers in her mind all the same.
Perspectives, though — those she finds more interesting. It draws a little smirk, that candid admission that some of his guild might come to envy aspects of Painting. That's not an admission to be heard often, after all; not so plainly, not without sarcasm or weak attempts at deflection, she imagined. Again, she does not know many Writers to prove her theories right. And yet, he now offers it with an ease that feels deliberate, as though he knows the heiress would not miss the chance to catch onto it. ❛ Envy is a strong word. And you do know how to use them well, ❜ she muses, her tone light, though her gaze sharpens, attentive. If Writers do usually chase the fluid, the undefined visions that many perspectives give them, then what does it say that they look toward the possibility of stasis, immutability, like that ?
She relaxes once more on the sofa. ❛ Back when I was a child, by the fireplace in my room, the shadows cast from a certain vase would remind me of a breathing creature, imprinted on the wall at night. Or a far more grotesque beast, were the vase filled with fresh flowers. It felt much easier, back then, to follow the pictures in my mind than what reality showed me, while Painting. Once a perspective is stuck in your head, it's hard to let it go. ❜ A single vision to follow, her chroma bending to her will in finite precision and decision. How to Paint the shadow representing both simple vase, and monster ? Well, perhaps, even the most harmless and inanimate vase she can ever create inside a Canvas would forever reflect that memory, the weird shadow in her subconscious. Restless matters, once again, never to be firmly held — sometimes against her will. Bothersome.
Simon can Write of that very, real scene, Clea thinks innocently — and he would have the girl described as both the elusive figure, carefully keeping away from the heart of the party, and the chatty artist. Dwelling on more than a single perspective, with the chance and ability to fill the gaps and to allow more complexity by offering new viewpoints... that may be her own, personal type of envy towards Writers.
❛ My mirror, then. ❜ The replica he speaks about. The dangerous notions she has spoken of earlier do resurface; she has herself to blame, as Clea suspects her speech about the trivial concept of death inside a Canvas or a Manuscript must have caught Simon's interest. And his concern.
❛ At the moment of creation, I suppose there would not be much difference. But time tends to, as they say, change the script. ❜ An unblemished, "newborn" creation differs from one left stalling in a regent-less Canvas for decades, at least at its core. And so... a being made of chroma, with real responsibilities pushed onto their shoulders ? ❛ I may be tilting at windmills, wishing for my art to stay immutable for as long as I'd like. My replica would not like it... and would not like me much either. ❜ The faintest curve of her lips returns. ❛ What if I re-enter the canvas to find my mirror tying ribbons in her hair, talking about tea blends, or worse — the weather ? ❜ That question lands lightly, almost an invitation to absurdity and laughter. A touch disturbing, though — he's right. ❛ Why ? Would you explore the possibilities a mirror of that sort offers, Simon ? ❜