...::: Character Visit: Ciarán Malone
Unsurprisingly, Ciarán was always dressed perfectly for whatever occasion at which he happened to be making an appearance. Furthermore, he never agonized over his decision. He always knew, instinctively, the perfect cut, style, and degree of formality appropriate for the event. He didn't take too much pride in the talent, oddly enough, as he
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“‘Your friend, Hortensis.’ How incessantly we’ve heard that phrase issuing from your lips, Miss Parkinson. I’d even call your protracted self-promotion tiresome were it not so transparent.”
Ciarán affixed the erstwhile heiress with an inscrutable (yet scrutinizing) gaze. Certainly she could not believe that he was ignorant of the handful of letters supplicating financial assistance she had sent out on “Hortensis’ ” behalf. When one was in a position such as he, it was almost required one make friends with the top business men of the day. Advertisers, publishers, authors, outlet owners--there were very few in the industry who withheld their secrets from him at this point, especially when it regarded business pleas from one in a similar market.
“In fact, Miss Parkinson, your capacity as Hortensis’ liaison with the outside world seems so strictly exclusive, I hope you will tolerate that, for the moment, I will refer to the two of you as one and the same.” He hoped, for the girl’s sake, that she was not honestly convinced those in the know still thought she was merely a “friend” of this vague Hortensis character. With Pansy so invested in the business and publicity affairs of the fledgling label, the two were obviously intimately connected…if not something more. The Mechanical Turk never operated itself, after all, and Ciarán doubted a girl as ambitious and ruthless as Pansy would be content with being a mouthpiece alone.
Ciarán snatched back his thoughts from where they hovered overhead, glimmering among the gold razor wire that was threaded through the air (why couldn’t anyone else see things properly?).
“I cannot say I attend to this subject without a good deal of reluctance. To preface this lecture: I promised myself long before I started my own label that I would never publicly condemn another designer. I always thought it smacked of bad taste, on more levels than one.”
Ciarán looked off into the distance a bit dreamily. He hadn’t meant to insinuate that Pansy’s inflammatory comparison was in bad taste, but the implication now seemed unavoidable. Besides, anything less from the girl would have been a vast disappointment. If one was not inundated in a sea of self-entitlement and a fiery, vehemently egocentric worldview, one was not interacting with Pansy Parkinson.
“However,” Ciarán began again, addressing the room this time. “Both the nature of these proceedings and my earlier promise of complete forthrightness seem to dictate that I go against my personal preferences. Thus, I ask for your forgiveness in advance.” He examined his laced fingers with a dark look. Would this be a relief? Probably not.
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“In the same sense, I am rather certain you aren’t referring to public relations. Granted, my recent extended sabbatical was not the friendliest of moves in that arena, but we have yet to even hear from this Hortensis save through you. Where are your ad campaigns? Your interviews? Do you not have enough respect for your clientele that you maintain this ridiculous shroud of secrecy?
Ciarán sighed again. Digressions, digressions.
“If you do not mean sales or publicity, perhaps you are speaking on a level of strictly design. Of course (though you seem to suggest otherwise), this is only a matter of opinion. In that regard, nonetheless, I beg to differ. On every level, I believe you to be vastly behind Malone in terms of your capacity for sophistication. You have flash, and you snagged attention-but by doing what? Ignoring any elite theory of aestheticism and doing the most shocking thing that occurred to you.
Contrary to the general consensus of the Theory of Design, you seem to insist that context means nothing. Your only sketch that has attracted any significant attention is that robe you wore to your own birthday party. Soon after, exact replicas were flying off your shelves.
A design as it is unveiled on the runway or in photographs is meant to be a distillation of the artist’s vision, an unadulterated presentation of the greater aesthetic goal. In the outside world, one mustn’t expect cookie-cutter reproductions. And yet, there was never any variation on your most famous design. My eyes bled when I saw the same thing on countless women, over and over and over again.” Ciarán’s hand flickered off to the side, a gesture that dismissed the memories; they irked his intrinsic aestheticism. “Market saturation at its worst.”
“The point is, you’ve missed the point. You launched your brand via your own preexisting fame, based on a design created only to shock people into attention. I cannot contend that you’ve achieved all of this magnificently. My dispute is of a different nature-a dispute that, perhaps, one could blame on my laughably idealistic idea of artistry.
Beyond the commercialism and the success on paper-and who really cares for that, anyhow-you’ve ignored every tenet of good design. You seek only newness; beauty is a second priority. Ruffle enough feathers with the superficial appeal of Never Been Done, and you will have plenty of attention. But oughtn’t there be more substance than a concentrated effort to make waves among the prudes?”
Ciarán was leaning forward in his seat now, one elbow balanced on a knee. Your passion is bleeding out, Alice-don’t let them see how deeply you believe in art.
“The cancer of the avant-garde is in sacrificing technique for originality. This is doubly tragic, in that everything, in a sense, has been done before. Have you ever bothered to postpone your own inclinations towards flashiness and study the masters (and, more importantly, the dunces) that came before you? What silliness, to claim ownership over a facet of design! Slashing dresses down the front, once one gets over the terrible shock of seeing the puckered scar of an old umbilical cord, is a terrible bore. There is no honor in a look that is popular merely because it scandalizing. Nudity ought to be a by-product of your goal, not the original intent.”
Ciarán smiled. This was, of course, turning into a lecture on proper design theory. But then-if not here, where? He certainly would never have breathed a word of this to the press in the real world.
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“I would, at least, congratulate you on accomplishing the Lowest Neckline Ever, if the public (as seems the case) still wishes to deem that something to celebrate. However, I don’t believe you can claim even the newness which you seem to seek so ardently.”
Mr. Malone settled back into his armchair, almost tentative to relate the next tidbit to the sheltered wizarding population present. Ah well-none of them would remember a thing.
“After all, when you created such a stir at your birthday celebration with that ‘pioneering’ dress of yours, you weren’t pioneering anything at all. The Muggles had been doing it for an entire season before yours debuted--which, of course, is a virtual eon in the fashion world.
"With all fairness, the Muggle pop singer that wore the design achieved the same effect as you: sudden, overwhelming attention."
To keep speaking? Never. There was too much ease in this thread; he loved the subject too much and could slide down the ice forever. Enough. Enough.
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