Number Thirty-One


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Scene Title Number Thirty One
Synopsis Two individuals with tastes for art and opinions on Pollock
Date February 4, 2009

Art Museum

Number 31 was an imposing peice. Broad and wide, with an abstract use of space that had an unnatural sense of artificial depth. Like you werent looking at a painting at a wall, more like you were trying to look through it. It looked dirty, weathered. Like it'd been somewhere nasty the night before and hadnt really gotten cleaned up quite yet to come home to the wife. He wasnt sure how he'd describe it if you actually asked him, he really wasnt quite that articulate when it came to something so essentially conceptual. So he just smiled, and let his thoughts slowly drain out of his eyes and wither in the open air.

He was dressed nicely today at least, having the day off was always nice. A coffee colored suit with some sort've creamy golden silk shirt and contrasting floral print tie that looked four times the age of the young twenty something(if that). A finely tailored vest, pocket watch, and a dark woolen coat(and fedora) folded delicately over one arm. It was less than typical, his manner of dress at that age but then again you meet a lot of strange folks in an art museum don't you?

She needed a break, from paperwork and ID's, dead partners and unknown new orders, not to mention laying low. She'd managed to be written off in the hospital as "casualty" of random attacks. Wrong place wrong time. Sonny had managed to transfer the wound from her abdomen to her arm, though still every now and then she had a twinge. Oh my Ovaries as a certain yellow skinned cartoon character would say. So she had met a client, left arm stiff, played nice, listened to what they wanted, needed, perused the museum to get a better idea of what it was their tastes leaned to. New money, self made. The wife wanted something dazzling. But they were gone now and all that was left was the pressed pants, ruffle front bloused older woman, with her suit jacket still on, coming up to peruse Number 31 behind Fedor. It was likely to be her last stop before she needed to sit.

There's a long moment, before a presence registers in Fedor's brainspace. He glances casually over his shoulder,letting his gaze linger perhaps a moment longer than would be polite. Then quietly, he steps back "Its awfully urban, isn't it?"It wasn't actually urban, but he was usuing something clever number #89 to try and break what was becoming an oddly uncomfortable silence.

"IS that necessarily a bad thing?" Comes Minea's voice as she glances over to Fedor a nod of her head then back to the piece in question. "It's like, truthfully, like i'm looking through a taxi window, and there's buckets of rain falling distorting everything. Like that Yellow" She gestures to a smudge in a right corner "Is a streetlamp and the darker portion there ot the left, that could be a tree or an electric pole" She murmurs. "I quite like this piece. Makes you think. Question. The intention of the artist I think. Very… lonely. Like your separated from the world"

Fedor offers a shrug "I don't know, considering how much Pollock drank you have to wonder if it was intentional. Not to slam the man or anything, I quite like this myself but I wonder. Do you think the human condition allows such an abstract expression when clean and sober, or do you think you need to be either drunk or stoned to turn those filters off and just let whats inside fall out?"

"There's many who were clean and sober, who can produce great pieces. Not just drunkards and those under the influence, but then, you cannot limit it to just drugs and alcohol. There's medical conditions, or mental conditions. A great many of artist had one or the other and produced such fine things. It's rumored that Picasso suffered from horrendous migraines which attributes to his fractured style in some of his painting" Minea points out. "Most who drink to the degree pollack did, are doing it intentionally, but with it comes a release of inhibitions sometimes and the ability to let your mind work beyond the bounds that stress and a normal life, just might. I know a few though, who can paint with incredible skill, talent and passion and are stone cold sober" Minea tilts her head to glance up at the painting once again. 'Maybe he just needed to wipe his glasses, who knows"

"Rothko and Pollock are sort've out there on their own, they were the firsts and both were so heavily drugged it'd have killed lesser men. Once the mold is cast, it only gets easier but to be first. To be as progressive, to be so ungodly unorthodox spoils the preponderance of those who would suggest natural affinity for abstract."He shrugs, taking another full step back as he lets the colors blend together. How very strange familiar paintings always looked, through different eyes. "They say addiction robs you of self, maybe that's what we see."

"Maybe. maybe what we see is not a window, but a drug, that keeps the painter from the real world" Minea shakes her head, turning slightly to offer her right hand to Fedor. 'Minea Dahl. Glad to see that there are others who enjoy thinking about the subject and not just looking for ten seconds and walking away"

"Just confusing myself for my own amusement."He smiles softly and turns to offer his right hand. "Fedor Rochinikev"he waits for you to lift your hand before he returns "Miss Dahl." It was a rare thing to find a proper gentleman these days, especially with such a youthful face. "Its a pleasure I assure you, though I should probably apologize for my foolishness."

"What foolishness is that Mr. Rochinikev" The proper emphasis on the appropriate syllables. Either a very good parrot or she understands where to put them. Minea gestures to a painting across the way and with it, a silent invite for him to join her. He's young, but, not terribly so.

He just smiles, he wasn't going to fish for a compliment or an insult but he was satisfied where he was. "I would hate to impose Miss Dahl, I'm afraid I'm hardly a critic. Just a fan, I would hate to be a gnat. So truly I must decline your most gracious invitation, just the same I did enjoy our little conversation. "He extends a hand, and in a snap of his fingers produces a business card which he offers over. "Just the same, if you ever need a lift dont hesitate to look me up?

"A lift?" Something else lifts, a brow and slightly as she takes the business card, looking down at it.

According to the card, he was a pilot. Fixed and rotary wing, for a company called Chicago Executive Air out of Teterboro airport which just so happened to be over in Jersey. "The curfew does not extend to helicopter traffic, and you can land a helicopter anywhere it doesn't interfere with traffic. With nobody driving around at night, that makes landing far easier."

Minea's forefinger taps the card, thoughtful. "You must be in a goldmine right now" The purse slung over the shoulder of her stiff arm is opened so she can produce a red enameled card holder to produce her own. Nothing so fancy, just simplly, her name, Dahl consultations ins mall print and a phone number and fax as well as email. "I'm not affected too greatly by the curfew" All her movements done to now show her favoring her left side. "Please, have mine as well"

Fedor accepts the card back, and in a similar slight of hand the card goes out into thin air with the snap of his wrist. "Yes and no, we have a number of standing contractual obligations. So we don't have a lot of excess bandwidth, nobody wants to fly on a cargo chopper it seems. So we're a little caught out."

"They're not the most comfortable of flights no" She's no stranger to that. "But sometimes, one has to lower their standards if they want to get somewhere. But please, don't let me keep you, it was a pleasure to meet you Mr. Rochinikev" She offers her hand again to him.

There's another firm shake, before he steps away and casually strolls back the way he'd come initially. See, New York wasnt so bad. You just needed to act like a gentlemen, and you'd be treated like one right?

February 4th: We Do What We Can
February 4th: Martyrdom Is Overrated
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