Random Story #2
History of Art Choice #
“This painting once belonged to Marie Antoinette, and it is said that it was painted specifically for her.” The tour guide’s voice rang out in the brightly lit museum. “King Louis personally commissioned it, although the artist had himself a little personal fun. As most of you know, Marie lived an extravagant life-style. King Louis would do anything for his young, beautiful wife; he served to her every whim. Here one of her many summer homes is pictured. The man in the picture looks strikingly like her husband, King Louis. The artist played on the fact that Louis would bend over backward if she asked him to, and here you see him building a moat for her. That particular home is actually in existence, and it does have a moat around it, although it doesn’t look like the one pictured.” The tour guide waited for the usual sporadic chuckles before moving on.
As the rest of the tour moved on, I stayed back, not interested in the history of the next painting. I was entranced; the painting-“Mosaic Moat”-had this magic to it that kept me standing there for a full minute. My friend, Carol, pulled away from the painting, and I watched it grow smaller as she half led me and half dragged me toward the tour group.
Later, after the tour had finished, Carol and I had lunch in the museum’s café. We discussed the art we’d seen over sandwiches and fries.
“What did you think of that really big one of the blue sky? I loved that one,” Carol sighed wistfully. “It made me feel like I was flying.”
“It was all right. I’m still stuck on the one that had belonged to Marie Antoinette. I wonder how much it would cost.” I munched on a few chips and stared into space, dreaming of the beautiful painting hanging in my house. “It would look perfect on that big blank space in my room. I’ve been looking for something to fill that space. The paneled walls would make it stand out in a way that the museums off white walls never could.”
“You aren’t serious.” Carol had stopped eating. “Honey, that would cost you half of your fortune, easy. I don’t think that is what your father meant for you to do when he left you all that money.” She pointed a fry at me. “Think of your kids’ college funds.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I don’t have kids.”
“But you will.” She dropped the fry into her ketchup. “Basically, your father wouldn’t approve.”
“Except that he’s dead now, and all that money is mine to use as I wish.” The fact that she was right was completely beyond the point. All I could think about was that painting. “If I have to, I’ll sell the house and move into a log cabin in the middle of nowhere as long as I get my painting. Then I can be happy. Complete.” I pushed away my food and began looking around for an employee. They’d know whom to ask about buying museum merchandise. I wanted to know right there and right then how much that painting would be. I could spend anything on it if I had to. I had majored in English and minored in Education. It’s not like I couldn’t get a job. I’d been brought up to work and to work for what I wanted.
“You really are serious,” Carol replied to my declaration. She too pushed her food into the center of the table. “Have you lost your mind? It is just a painting. A week from now you’ll be on to something new.” She reached across the table and halted my hands’ nervous fluttering.
“What about the painting of the sky? The one that made you feel like you were flying? Wouldn’t you love to hang that in your living room?” I asked, trying to make her understand.
“Yeah, sure, it would be nice, but I don’t have that kind of money.”
“I have that kind of money,” I replied sharply. I noticed that people were looking at us, but they must have understood. They had been in the tour; they’d seen the painting. They must have seen why I needed it.
“That’s not the point!” She yelled. I looked her in the eye and saw that she was determined to stop me. So I played calm.
“Okay, okay. You’re right, anyway. Never mind.” Carol looked at me suspiciously, but let go of me and picked up the remains of her sandwich.
“Good. I thought you were going to start foaming at the mouth for a second. “ Carol took a tentative bite and chewed slowly, still eyeing me. I picked up my own sandwich carefully, taking small bites ad my brain cooled. I began to formulate a plan.
. . . . . . . . . .
From The History of Art; By David Rosencrantz:
(pg 180)
“The Mosaic Moat”, was a painting commissioned just for French queen, Marie Antoinette, in 1771 by her husband, King Louis XVI. There are many legends and myths surrounding this painting, none of which can be proven. Many say that the painting itself was a play on the relationship between King Louis and Marie herself, although artists and historians alike have disputed the actual meaning. The painting itself cannot be completely studied because its last owner destroyed the original in an act of vandalism…
The next day, I woke up early and dressed quickly. I checked my hair in the mirror, but stopped before leaving the bathroom, giving into my own crazed eyes. For a moment sanity seeped back into my mind, and I almost wanted to crawl back in between my still warm sheets and go back to sleep. But then I saw the painting in my mind’s eyes. By drive resolved, and soon I was out of the bathroom, and in the main hall of my giant home. My father left me. Again I paused. But this time to pity the grandeur that on one appreciates.
Two hours later, I’d swindled three of the museum’s finest curators and the owner, and I was having the painting shipped to my home by three. I paced and showered and paced some more, waiting for its arrival.
From A Daughter Not Loved, By Marie Byatt
September 30
Today is my 15th birthday. Dad gave me a ride to the place where the driver’s licenses live, and I tested 100% for my permit. I guess all that boring reading in the driver’s guide paid off. He let me drive to the jewelry store, where the most fantastic necklace I’ve ever seen was waiting for me. It’s blue and shiny. I can’t tell if it’s a real sapphire or not, but I don’t want to ask Dad. It sounds to ungrateful. I just can’t stop looking at it! It’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen. I’m keeping it in a plastic bag when I'm not wearing it so it doesn’t tarnish too quickly. That way it’ll stay perfect a lot longer.
Mom didn’t get me anything, but that’s no surprise. She hasn’t gotten me anything since my fourth birthday. I don’t even remember those birthdays, I’ve just seen pictures. She’s been upstairs all week. I'm not even sure if she’s been eating.
Oh! Carol came by and gave me this very journal. She didn’t go up and see Mom…
“Over there, please. Oh! Please be careful!” I shouted to the five big, burly men who adjusted the furniture in my room to accommodate my new painting. I’d even taken a glass case that had once held some of my father’s possessions and removed the back. With out it, the case could stand against the wall, protecting my beautiful new possession. That way the currents and dust in the air couldn’t damage it. It would stay perfect much longer.
“Hang it there, yes, and move that chair to the left. My left. There-perfect.” The men stopped and looked at me for more instructions. I was having a difficult time tearing my eyes away from the painting. “Would you guys help me put that glass case around it was well?” I asked, motioning in its general direction.
Twenty minutes later I was treating them to lemonade and sandwiches, wanting desperately all the time to be upstairs. The tallest of the men winked at me, clearly seeing my desire to be elsewhere, and he asked me if I’d tell him about the painting. I quickly agreed, glad for an excuse to talk about it. On the way upstairs I learned that his name was Thomas Byatt and that he had a love for art. That was all that I needed to know about him.
I told him everything I knew about the painting, and then we got on the Internet to find out more. It turned out that Marie Antoinette had loved the painting so much that she ‘d kept it in her own wing of where she lived. It was more famous than I had thought. There were books and stories about it, and so many different interpretations. I preferred the story that the tour guide had told. If that version was true, Marie Antoinette hadn’t minded. She still kept it with her.
From Marie Antoinette, Extravagant Woman By Jacque de Mouir
Antoine kept with her at all times a beautiful painting. It had been a gift from her husband. Louis gave her many gifts to keep her happy, and most of them she tossed aside after just one use. But this painting she kept hanging in her room, and she sometimes had it brought with her when she left home to stay elsewhere. It never truly left her side, and she is said to have called out for it when in prison…
Three months and some change later, I became Mrs. Thomas Byatt. We were married right after I found I was pregnant, and I haven’t spoken to Carol since. She wrote me a letter all about rash decisions, but I just skimmed it and then threw it away. She had tried to keep me from my painting. There was just no way to be friends with that thought in my mind.
Thomas and I were fairly happy, I suppose. I was happy, at least. I spent the majority of my time in the rocking chair he made me, gazing at my painting. Thomas insisted on keeping headphones pressed to my stomach all the time, Mozart playing in the baby’s ears. I think he read something in a parenting magazine that smart babies listen to Mozart. I loved that the baby was an excuse for me to sit all day. When the pains started, Thomas was sitting with me. He’d asked me a question out of the blue.
“Are you all right? You’re looking a little pale,” he’d asked while patting my hand. The headphones slipped off my swollen stomach and onto the floor.
“My stomach hurts, that’s all. It must have been something I ate. Don’t fret.” I pushed his hand away and shifted into a more comfortable position. But fifteen minutes I was doubled over and soaked, and only then did I realize what was happening. Six long hours after that, I was holding a small, wrinkled baby in my arms. Nurses were all around me, telling mew how beautiful she was. I began to tell them about my painting and how it was a thousand more times beautiful than the little creature, but Thomas asked them to leave before I’d even gotten the words completely out of my mouth. I wanted to take them to my home and show them true beauty. This “beauty” was screaming like death was upon it, and I secretly hoped it was. I’d read about the long nights and boring days of motherhood. At least I’d get to spend a lot of time in my bedroom.
From A Daughter Not Loved, By Marie Byatt
December 26
Yesterday was Christmas! I know I didn’t journal on that day, but I was so busy that I couldn’t make time. I got a whole lot of books from dad and some beautiful shelves to keep them on; a dress from dad fit for a twelve year old (he means well, but should stick to gift cards when clothes shopping); a new curling iron; some arts and crafts stuff; and this fantastic pair of shoes. They’re a beautiful shade of blue, and they make me four inches taller! I love them.
But he also gave me something I didn’t like as much. He took me into mom’s old room and told me that since mom was gone, I could have her painting. He said it was worth a lot of money, and that I could do what I wanted with it, and then he left.
At first I didn’t know what to do, but then it came to me. So I left the room and returned a few minutes later with my old softball bat. The case was down in just three swings, and the painting was oddly light. I’d expected it to weigh at least thirty pounds, but it was much lighter. It still took me a good seven minutes to get it all the way outside, and then another five to find the gasoline the gardener keeps for the riding mower.
But it only took one minute to go up in flames.
Tomorrow Dad and I are going to see a movie. It’s a tradition we started when I was seven. I really want to see the chick flick about the girl who was an editor…
Fin.
“This painting once belonged to Marie Antoinette, and it is said that it was painted specifically for her.” The tour guide’s voice rang out in the brightly lit museum. “King Louis personally commissioned it, although the artist had himself a little personal fun. As most of you know, Marie lived an extravagant life-style. King Louis would do anything for his young, beautiful wife; he served to her every whim. Here one of her many summer homes is pictured. The man in the picture looks strikingly like her husband, King Louis. The artist played on the fact that Louis would bend over backward if she asked him to, and here you see him building a moat for her. That particular home is actually in existence, and it does have a moat around it, although it doesn’t look like the one pictured.” The tour guide waited for the usual sporadic chuckles before moving on.
As the rest of the tour moved on, I stayed back, not interested in the history of the next painting. I was entranced; the painting-“Mosaic Moat”-had this magic to it that kept me standing there for a full minute. My friend, Carol, pulled away from the painting, and I watched it grow smaller as she half led me and half dragged me toward the tour group.
Later, after the tour had finished, Carol and I had lunch in the museum’s café. We discussed the art we’d seen over sandwiches and fries.
“What did you think of that really big one of the blue sky? I loved that one,” Carol sighed wistfully. “It made me feel like I was flying.”
“It was all right. I’m still stuck on the one that had belonged to Marie Antoinette. I wonder how much it would cost.” I munched on a few chips and stared into space, dreaming of the beautiful painting hanging in my house. “It would look perfect on that big blank space in my room. I’ve been looking for something to fill that space. The paneled walls would make it stand out in a way that the museums off white walls never could.”
“You aren’t serious.” Carol had stopped eating. “Honey, that would cost you half of your fortune, easy. I don’t think that is what your father meant for you to do when he left you all that money.” She pointed a fry at me. “Think of your kids’ college funds.”
I raised an eyebrow. “I don’t have kids.”
“But you will.” She dropped the fry into her ketchup. “Basically, your father wouldn’t approve.”
“Except that he’s dead now, and all that money is mine to use as I wish.” The fact that she was right was completely beyond the point. All I could think about was that painting. “If I have to, I’ll sell the house and move into a log cabin in the middle of nowhere as long as I get my painting. Then I can be happy. Complete.” I pushed away my food and began looking around for an employee. They’d know whom to ask about buying museum merchandise. I wanted to know right there and right then how much that painting would be. I could spend anything on it if I had to. I had majored in English and minored in Education. It’s not like I couldn’t get a job. I’d been brought up to work and to work for what I wanted.
“You really are serious,” Carol replied to my declaration. She too pushed her food into the center of the table. “Have you lost your mind? It is just a painting. A week from now you’ll be on to something new.” She reached across the table and halted my hands’ nervous fluttering.
“What about the painting of the sky? The one that made you feel like you were flying? Wouldn’t you love to hang that in your living room?” I asked, trying to make her understand.
“Yeah, sure, it would be nice, but I don’t have that kind of money.”
“I have that kind of money,” I replied sharply. I noticed that people were looking at us, but they must have understood. They had been in the tour; they’d seen the painting. They must have seen why I needed it.
“That’s not the point!” She yelled. I looked her in the eye and saw that she was determined to stop me. So I played calm.
“Okay, okay. You’re right, anyway. Never mind.” Carol looked at me suspiciously, but let go of me and picked up the remains of her sandwich.
“Good. I thought you were going to start foaming at the mouth for a second. “ Carol took a tentative bite and chewed slowly, still eyeing me. I picked up my own sandwich carefully, taking small bites ad my brain cooled. I began to formulate a plan.
. . . . . . . . . .
From The History of Art; By David Rosencrantz:
(pg 180)
“The Mosaic Moat”, was a painting commissioned just for French queen, Marie Antoinette, in 1771 by her husband, King Louis XVI. There are many legends and myths surrounding this painting, none of which can be proven. Many say that the painting itself was a play on the relationship between King Louis and Marie herself, although artists and historians alike have disputed the actual meaning. The painting itself cannot be completely studied because its last owner destroyed the original in an act of vandalism…
The next day, I woke up early and dressed quickly. I checked my hair in the mirror, but stopped before leaving the bathroom, giving into my own crazed eyes. For a moment sanity seeped back into my mind, and I almost wanted to crawl back in between my still warm sheets and go back to sleep. But then I saw the painting in my mind’s eyes. By drive resolved, and soon I was out of the bathroom, and in the main hall of my giant home. My father left me. Again I paused. But this time to pity the grandeur that on one appreciates.
Two hours later, I’d swindled three of the museum’s finest curators and the owner, and I was having the painting shipped to my home by three. I paced and showered and paced some more, waiting for its arrival.
From A Daughter Not Loved, By Marie Byatt
September 30
Today is my 15th birthday. Dad gave me a ride to the place where the driver’s licenses live, and I tested 100% for my permit. I guess all that boring reading in the driver’s guide paid off. He let me drive to the jewelry store, where the most fantastic necklace I’ve ever seen was waiting for me. It’s blue and shiny. I can’t tell if it’s a real sapphire or not, but I don’t want to ask Dad. It sounds to ungrateful. I just can’t stop looking at it! It’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen. I’m keeping it in a plastic bag when I'm not wearing it so it doesn’t tarnish too quickly. That way it’ll stay perfect a lot longer.
Mom didn’t get me anything, but that’s no surprise. She hasn’t gotten me anything since my fourth birthday. I don’t even remember those birthdays, I’ve just seen pictures. She’s been upstairs all week. I'm not even sure if she’s been eating.
Oh! Carol came by and gave me this very journal. She didn’t go up and see Mom…
“Over there, please. Oh! Please be careful!” I shouted to the five big, burly men who adjusted the furniture in my room to accommodate my new painting. I’d even taken a glass case that had once held some of my father’s possessions and removed the back. With out it, the case could stand against the wall, protecting my beautiful new possession. That way the currents and dust in the air couldn’t damage it. It would stay perfect much longer.
“Hang it there, yes, and move that chair to the left. My left. There-perfect.” The men stopped and looked at me for more instructions. I was having a difficult time tearing my eyes away from the painting. “Would you guys help me put that glass case around it was well?” I asked, motioning in its general direction.
Twenty minutes later I was treating them to lemonade and sandwiches, wanting desperately all the time to be upstairs. The tallest of the men winked at me, clearly seeing my desire to be elsewhere, and he asked me if I’d tell him about the painting. I quickly agreed, glad for an excuse to talk about it. On the way upstairs I learned that his name was Thomas Byatt and that he had a love for art. That was all that I needed to know about him.
I told him everything I knew about the painting, and then we got on the Internet to find out more. It turned out that Marie Antoinette had loved the painting so much that she ‘d kept it in her own wing of where she lived. It was more famous than I had thought. There were books and stories about it, and so many different interpretations. I preferred the story that the tour guide had told. If that version was true, Marie Antoinette hadn’t minded. She still kept it with her.
From Marie Antoinette, Extravagant Woman By Jacque de Mouir
Antoine kept with her at all times a beautiful painting. It had been a gift from her husband. Louis gave her many gifts to keep her happy, and most of them she tossed aside after just one use. But this painting she kept hanging in her room, and she sometimes had it brought with her when she left home to stay elsewhere. It never truly left her side, and she is said to have called out for it when in prison…
Three months and some change later, I became Mrs. Thomas Byatt. We were married right after I found I was pregnant, and I haven’t spoken to Carol since. She wrote me a letter all about rash decisions, but I just skimmed it and then threw it away. She had tried to keep me from my painting. There was just no way to be friends with that thought in my mind.
Thomas and I were fairly happy, I suppose. I was happy, at least. I spent the majority of my time in the rocking chair he made me, gazing at my painting. Thomas insisted on keeping headphones pressed to my stomach all the time, Mozart playing in the baby’s ears. I think he read something in a parenting magazine that smart babies listen to Mozart. I loved that the baby was an excuse for me to sit all day. When the pains started, Thomas was sitting with me. He’d asked me a question out of the blue.
“Are you all right? You’re looking a little pale,” he’d asked while patting my hand. The headphones slipped off my swollen stomach and onto the floor.
“My stomach hurts, that’s all. It must have been something I ate. Don’t fret.” I pushed his hand away and shifted into a more comfortable position. But fifteen minutes I was doubled over and soaked, and only then did I realize what was happening. Six long hours after that, I was holding a small, wrinkled baby in my arms. Nurses were all around me, telling mew how beautiful she was. I began to tell them about my painting and how it was a thousand more times beautiful than the little creature, but Thomas asked them to leave before I’d even gotten the words completely out of my mouth. I wanted to take them to my home and show them true beauty. This “beauty” was screaming like death was upon it, and I secretly hoped it was. I’d read about the long nights and boring days of motherhood. At least I’d get to spend a lot of time in my bedroom.
From A Daughter Not Loved, By Marie Byatt
December 26
Yesterday was Christmas! I know I didn’t journal on that day, but I was so busy that I couldn’t make time. I got a whole lot of books from dad and some beautiful shelves to keep them on; a dress from dad fit for a twelve year old (he means well, but should stick to gift cards when clothes shopping); a new curling iron; some arts and crafts stuff; and this fantastic pair of shoes. They’re a beautiful shade of blue, and they make me four inches taller! I love them.
But he also gave me something I didn’t like as much. He took me into mom’s old room and told me that since mom was gone, I could have her painting. He said it was worth a lot of money, and that I could do what I wanted with it, and then he left.
At first I didn’t know what to do, but then it came to me. So I left the room and returned a few minutes later with my old softball bat. The case was down in just three swings, and the painting was oddly light. I’d expected it to weigh at least thirty pounds, but it was much lighter. It still took me a good seven minutes to get it all the way outside, and then another five to find the gasoline the gardener keeps for the riding mower.
But it only took one minute to go up in flames.
Tomorrow Dad and I are going to see a movie. It’s a tradition we started when I was seven. I really want to see the chick flick about the girl who was an editor…
Fin.