TMarkos
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Where did March go?
🕑 Added 2021-03-31 22:41:18 +0000 UTCSeems like the month flew right on by. Hopefully all the books sent domestically have made their way to their new owners by now, and if you haven't yet provided your address please feel free to make the update - it's not too late!
I'm targeting the first chapter release of Peculiar Soul for patrons on April 7th, next Wednesday. There are some minor revisions to the preview of the chapter posted earlier, and I'll be including a supplement along with it. After that, I'm hoping to keep plugging along at one per week. Getting close!
To keep you entertained, I thought I'd listen to a suggestion and link some short works I've posted on r/HFY over the years. I'll include one in full-text below, but the rest are over at https://www.reddit.com/r/HFY/wiki/authors/tmarkos if you're curious.
See you next Wednesday!
---
"I don't understand it."
Marie looked up at the Qevin ambassador with an exasperated grin. "Delat, you've been in this gallery for nearly an hour now. You've stopped in front of a dozen paintings. Each time, you stare at it for several minutes. Each time, you say the same thing."
"Because I don't understand," Delat replied. "You seem to find this amusing, but I'm failing at a primary purpose of my visit here. It is causing me considerable distress."
She looked at Delat's impassive, squishy face. "Uh-huh," she said, not sounding particularly convinced. "All right, tell you what. You look at this painting and tell me what you see, then I'll do the same."
The folds of his face deepened in concentration as he leaned closer to the paint-daubed canvas. "It is a composition of colored paints on cloth, primarily red. The design does not appear to represent or depict anything, nor does it adhere to any form of symmetry or geometric patterning that I can discern. Chaotic black and grey strokes provide contrast." Delat paused, looking at Marie. "Is it the contrast? Does that hold the painting's appeal?"
Marie couldn't quite stifle her smile at the earnest question, shaking her head gently. "No, although it does help," she said. She walked over to the small plaque beside the painting. "What does that say?"
Delat examined the title card. "Friday Evening," he muttered. "I had noticed it earlier, but the name did not seem to bear any significance on the artwork. I had considered the idea that it was randomly chosen."
"Nothing in art is random, even the random elements," Marie said. "Look at it again through the lens of the name. The red, like a setting sun outdoors, blending with the warm tones of streetlights. The strokes are big, slow. They're taking their time, slowly fading into the black. The darker strokes are narrow, spiky - almost threatening. They're encroaching on the fading red, waiting to take what's theirs. There's a tension in the piece, dying light versus ascendent dark. Can you see it?"
Delat looked at the painting for a long, long moment. "No," he said.
Marie sighed. "Well, we gave it a try," she said.
"No, this was valuable," Delat insisted. "Please, tell me what the other paintings mean. I will convey your words back to Qevi and we will analyze them further."
"Wait, Del," Marie said, her eyes going wide. "I might not have explained it well. What I told you isn't what the painting means. It's what the painting means to me."
Delat blinked, a complex operation for a Qevin. "Is your interpretation erroneous?" he asked. "What is the consensus opinion, then?"
She shook her head, pressing two fingers against the bridge of her nose. "There is no consensus," she sighed. "You have to understand - you could walk everyone in this room past this painting and get entirely unique interpretations from every one. Hell, there's probably a few of them that would be closer to your view of it than mine."
"But this art is popular," Delat objected.
Marie nodded. "Very."
"Even though no two of you agree on what it means, and a significant portion fail to derive any meaning from it whatsoever," Delat said flatly.
"That is likely part of the appeal," Marie confirmed, the hint of a smile rising to her lips once more. "It's about being evocative, Del. Providing a direction for emotion and thought, a nucleation point for ideas and feelings to take hold and expand in new directions you might not have considered."
Delat blinked once more, then consulted his handpad. After a moment, he gave her an confused look. "That is not the definition of art," he said.
"The definition-" Marie sputtered, making an exasperated gesture. "Del, there is no definition of art. It's as nebulous as the meaning of that painting, changing from person to person. Many humans would say this painting isn't art."
"But it is," Delat said.
"Yes, it is," Marie sighed.
Delat's facial folds deepened once more. "So," he said slowly. "Many of your people require additional education on the subject?"
"No!" Marie shouted, drawing some glares from the other gallery patrons. "Oh, dammit, I'm explaining this all wrong."
"It seems to be a very complex subject," Delat said. "I'm sure some of the fault is mine, for not comprehending fully. I will note in my report that you made an exemplary effort."
Marie shook her head, running her fingers through her hair frustratedly. "It's not your fault, we're just kind of hard to summarize sometimes," she said wryly. "How about this - I'll put my head together with a few folks from the consulate and we'll see if we can't figure something out. Keep a spot open on your calendar." She darted a sly look at the painting beside them. "Let's say Friday evening."
Delat added an item to his handpad, then paused. "Humor," he said, looking up at her. "That was a reference to a relevant but unexpected contextual element. It was humorous."
"Good job," Marie chuckled. "We'll have you doing stand-up by next week."
"I am already standing," Delat noted.
"Hah, see? You're a natural," she teased, moving towards the gallery exit. "Friday, Del! I'll be in touch!"
---
They had an early dinner on Friday before commandeering one of the embassy's fliers to whisk them away towards a location farther south down the coast. Delat looked over at Marie, who was humming softly with a slight smile on her face.
"You seem content," he observed.
She grinned at him, flashing her teeth. "I have a good feeling about this," she said. "We did our research, tried to figure out what sort of stimuli might resonate best with a Qevin. The materials in your intro packet said that your people lived in your planet's oceans for a comparatively long period of time, right? Safe from the stormy weather?"
Delat inclined his head. "That is correct," he said. "We only emerged in response to depleted hunting caused by a minor extinction event, at which point our development proceeded on a route fairly close to galactic norms." He paused. "This is relevant to art?" he said, sounding as incredulous as a Qevin ever had.
"For us, art that addresses the primal is some of the most intense and appreciated," she said, then paused and cocked her head.
"You are about to qualify that statement," Delat said. "You are going to tell me that other humans do not value such art, nor do they consider it art at all."
The descent chime went off, and Marie laughed. "I won't tell you any such thing," she said. "But only because you've already figured it out. Come on, we're running late."
Delat allowed her to hurry him away from the flier and towards a gigantic structure - one of their sporting arenas, if he remembered correctly. They joined a stream of people moving through one of the many entrances and soon found themselves in the middle of a seething mass of people. Many shot curious looks their way - Delat was far from the only nonhuman there, but few Qevin had visited Earth. Yet.
Marie grabbed one of his primary arms and led him through the crowd. The space opened up into a colossal partial enclosure ringed with seats, presumably for watching the sporting events that were the building's purpose. Everyone present was on the flat center, however, clustered before a smaller flat platform in the center with a variety of electrical apparatus. He turned to Marie in confusion.
"I don't understand," he said, noting the small quirk of her lips as he said it. "Should we not be in the seats?"
"Are you kidding me?" she said, shouting over the noise of the crowd. "You have to be down by the stage. Trust me, you'll see."
Delat inclined his head. "I will trust you," he said.
The two of them stood amid the sea of people in a tiny bubble of space afforded to them by Delat's novelty and bulk. The roof over the arena loomed high and dark above them, and as the stage fell into shadow some strangely-garbed men climbed the stairs to stand before the crowd. There was a hum from the stage, and the odd taste of ozone. The lights went out, plunging them into darkness. Amid the building excitement from the audience, one of them held an instrument aloft - a guitar, Delat recognized - and ran his fingers sharply over its strings.
A burst of lightning erupted from a tall silver pillar behind him, sounding a low note that jarred Delat's very bones. He flinched backwards in utter shock, thinking the humans must be dead from such a close impact - but the cheers only intensified, and as he composed himself Delat saw that they were each wearing metal clothing designed to shield them from the shock. The man began to play the guitar, evoking lightning from the pillar behind him that skirled up and down the musical scale.
"Frequency modulation?" Delat shouted, looking to Marie.
Marie turned to him with a giant grin, her eyes sparkling. "You dork, just shut up and-"
A blast of low-frequency sound drowned out the rest of her sentence, once again startling Delat backward. The crowd around him roared back, their voices a single titanic chant of approval. Delat felt as if he were immersed in an ocean of noise, muddy currents of sound pressing in on him as the lightning strobed from the stage. The performers began to play in earnest, the lightning and the crowd thundering as one while the bass pulsed deep and powerful over the masses.
The man with the guitar hopped up onto a raised platform and thrust his fist skyward as he strummed with the other, catching the bolt of lightning on his fingers. The arcing electricity made a pure note that skittered over the bass, pulsing, merging. Lasers and strobes cut brilliant lines through the air that shifted color with dizzying speed.
Delat was overwhelmed with the sensations that assaulted him from all sides, the crowd surging like a living beast in response to the musicians. As the music reached a crescendo he felt the noise pull and pull at him until he tilted his head back and roared a stentorian bellow, raising his arms high.
There was a visible disturbance in the stadium as the concertgoers reacted to Delat's impulsive call, and he immediately felt shame crushing down upon him. He turned to Marie to apologize, to ask that they leave - but found her laughing delightedly. On the stage, the guitarist punched his fist into the air and the bass roared back in an imitation of his call, rattling the audience even more thoroughly than he had.
The crowd went mad, the lightning struck, and the show surged onward with wild abandon. Delat rode the sound in delirious, ecstatic waves for so long that he lost all track of time, lost everything but the lights, the pulse, the thunder-
And then it was over. The band played their last thundering note while lightning crackled and flames burst upward from the stage, sending the crowd into hoarse, screaming fits that lasted well after the band had waved their exhausted farewell. Delat felt drained in ways he had never felt before - but still alert, awake, full of energy. He let Marie lead him towards the exit, noting that several around them made appreciative comments about his "singing" during the concert.
Finally, they were in the tunnel leading out towards the flyer pad, the crowds departing by other exits. The air was cooler - he hadn't noticed how hot it had been by the stage, but now he relished the refreshing breeze from outside as they walked.
"That was it, wasn't it?" he said, finding his voice surprisingly hoarse. "That was art."
Marie grinned at him, although it seemed she hadn't stopped smiling since they entered. "Yep," she said proudly. "That was art."
He shook his head, feeling oddly giddy as they neared the exit. "So strange," he said. "And so different from what you showed me before. I wonder if humans simply find the visual medium more-"
Marie lost her grip on his arm as he stopped dead in his tracks. She looked back to find him slack-faced, staring out into the distance. "Del?" she said, her smile at last fading into a concerned frown. "Hey, you all right?"
Delat looked out at the reddening sky, overcome. Deep crimson and orange wove through the clouds on the horizon, shading into purples above and culiminating in a thin line of brilliant gold where the sun had yet to release its hold on the heavens. The silhouettes of trees and buildings clawed their way into the sky, a thousand blackened cutouts framing the brilliant palette above. He was immobile, helpless. The dinner, the flight, the concert, the assault of sensation and the roar of the people, the feel of the space around him vibrating with the noise, the excited energy of the crowd as it dispersed - and the cool air on his face, washing it all away while the sky burned. Friday Evening.
He would remember this night forever.
"Marie," he croaked.
"Yeah, Del?" she said, looking truly worried. "Are you okay? Was it too much?"
"The gallery," he said. "How soon can we go back? I need to - to see the painting."
She blinked, looking confused, then pivoted to follow his gaze. "Oh," she said. "Oh." She turned back to him, smiling once more - though, strangely, he saw tears marking the corners of her eyes. "Get in the flier," she laughed, her voice thick with emotion. "You're the ambassador. For you, they're open now."
