“So do you admit that you do not fully appreciate life, or are you suggesting that you understand life fully?”
“I…” Rose began, but then frowned, realizing that he had bound her into a position where either admission would reflect poorly upon her. He continued grinning in that infuriating way of his, and she adopted an airy tone.
“I believe it would do a disservice to the artists who devoted so much time and energy to these paintings to focus on abstractphilosophical matters instead of appreciating their work. Maybe we should see if any of them evoke any emotions within you,” Rose said.
“Indeed, we should,” Edmund said, and they stood in front of the first painting. A few people moved off when they arrived. Rose made sure to stand on one side of the painting, while Edmund remained on the other side. Tension bubbled in her feet, for she was prepared to move if he tried to get too close.
The painting depicted a landscape of mountains and forest with a storm brewing in the background. A small village sat at the mountain's base, with firelight flickering and people scattered around. A sense of darkness and foreboding filled the scene, and Rose realized she did not like it at all.
“And what do you make of this one?” she asked.
“Well, for one, I feel bad for those people,” he said, pointing to the village.
“You don’t believe they would survive the storm?”
“Some of them might, but it’s not going to be easy for them. Then again, perhaps they deserve it for being so reckless.”
Rose furrowed her brow. “What is reckless about them? They are just living there.”
“Settling beneath the shadow of a mountain. They should have known better. I doubt this is the first storm to pass by, and they’ve probably suffered tragedies before. But did they think that they should move on and make a new home somewhere else? No, I doubt the thought ever occurred to them. So they go on suffering and probably blame everyone but themselves.”
“I am not sure that’s an entirely fair reading of the painting. It is just a painting after all. And I would have thought you would be the last person to lecture anyone about being reckless.”
He angled his gaze toward her. There was a snapping motion to his neck, and a harshness to his glare. It lasted for only a moment, but Rose was quite chilled by it.
“I am not reckless. I am playful. I do not put myself in dangerous situations,” he said. The shadow passed across his face as his gaze returned to the painting. When he spoke again, there was a pensive tone to his words, and she found them to be cruel.
“They deserve whatever happened to them. They should have known better. And of course, it was probably the children who suffered most of all. I tire of this painting,” he said, and promptly moved on at a brisk pace.
Rose was so stunned by his sudden change in mood that she took a moment to turn. She stared at the painting for a moment longer, fixating on the small blobs of paint that formed people. In her mind, she could hear their panicked screams as they ran around in terror, seeking shelter and praying to God that the storm would pass them by.
Then, she shook the thought from her mind. It was nonsense, she decided. These were not even real people. They were just paintings, yet somehow they affected both of them and seemed to reveal something about Edmund, and she suspected it had something to do with his parents.
With a cautious look in her eyes, she moved to the next painting, which Edmund was studying intently.
“Now this is more like it. This is what I call art,” he said.
The painting depicted two people standing side by side. Cherubs were floating in the sky, while the ground was covered in blossoming flowers of vivid and different colors. Rose blushed as the subjects of the painting were nude. Their bodies were angled in such a way to hide their most intimate areas, but their chests were on display.
The man’s chest was broad and hairless, deep angles carved into his flesh, creating hard muscles. He wore a crown of leaves. The woman had flowers braided into her hair. She had one hand on the man’s shoulder. His hand nestled at her waist, pulling her in. Her form was soft and delicately rendered.
A lump appeared in Rose’s throat, and she turned away.
“Is the painting not to your liking?” Edmund asked. The teasing nature of his comment was impossible to ignore.
“I am not sure this is art. Some would say it is obscene.”
“Do you not believe in the freedom of expression? I would have thought that someone as engaged with the literary world as you would be more sympathetic to artists pushing the boundaries of society.”
“Of course I am. I am just not entirely sure that it is right for this piece of art to be displayed in public like this, especially when there could be children around.”
“We are all born into the world the same way,” Edmund said, then leaned forward to study the small plaque beneath the painting. “Ah, it is called ‘The Wedding’.” He leaned back and tapped his finger against his lips. “Perhaps I have been misguided all along. I never knew a wedding could be like this. It would go down in history. Just imagine it.” He turned to her and smiled widely.
Rose shuddered.
“No decent woman would ever subject herself to such a thing.”
“I am not sure, she looks perfectly decent to me,” Edmund said with a slanted smile.
