(no subject)
The gallery had sat, open but uncared-for and unoccupied for too long.
As Anthony stood about ten feet away from the building's lavishly painted front door, squinting slightly in the glare of the sun, he could not help but smile. Two months had passed since Vanessa Bell had disappeared from the island, his last connection to a certain, idyllic corner of his past in England. Though they had long had a multitude of reasons to dislike each other, Anthony missed her a bit, if only for a certain quality of beauty that she brought to the island and that he secretly - very secretly - had long admired. By the time the snow had cleared, Anthony had decided that someone needed to make use of the space - and why not him?
The gallery's interior, when Anthony went in, possessed the same brightness as the outside. There was something of Cornwall in the building, Anthony had always thought - something in the bright white of the outer walls and the Continental use of light that spoke more of the English seaside than of the London and Cambridge art museums to which he was accustomed. But it suited the island, even he had to admit. Slowly, Anthony circled the room, gauging the art that was already hanging on the walls. There were the paintings by Vincent van Gogh and Vanessa herself, ones made on the island that would never be found in any gallery or museum in the real world; here were the Poussins and the Picasso that Anthony had received as gifts from the island and kept here for safekeeping.
And then there was the wall of student art. Here, Anthony paused and grimaced. Not all of it was dreadful, but, well- Mrs. Bell had always had a significantly more liberal definition of "talent" than Blunt. Some curating would be necessary.
Finally, in one corner, sat a small bookshelf. Anthony had had one of the members of the building crew construct it for him, and had already begun to fill it with art texts and books of prints that those visiting the gallery might find interesting. Now he approached to add two more book on the shelf: Virgina Woolf's To The Lighthouse and Winter Movement by Julian Bell. Neither were actually art related; both felt appropriate all the same.
"Yes, yes this will do very nicely," he murmured, and turned as he heard someone come in through the wide-open door.
[Timed to mid-afternoon. See post in slated for details]
As Anthony stood about ten feet away from the building's lavishly painted front door, squinting slightly in the glare of the sun, he could not help but smile. Two months had passed since Vanessa Bell had disappeared from the island, his last connection to a certain, idyllic corner of his past in England. Though they had long had a multitude of reasons to dislike each other, Anthony missed her a bit, if only for a certain quality of beauty that she brought to the island and that he secretly - very secretly - had long admired. By the time the snow had cleared, Anthony had decided that someone needed to make use of the space - and why not him?
The gallery's interior, when Anthony went in, possessed the same brightness as the outside. There was something of Cornwall in the building, Anthony had always thought - something in the bright white of the outer walls and the Continental use of light that spoke more of the English seaside than of the London and Cambridge art museums to which he was accustomed. But it suited the island, even he had to admit. Slowly, Anthony circled the room, gauging the art that was already hanging on the walls. There were the paintings by Vincent van Gogh and Vanessa herself, ones made on the island that would never be found in any gallery or museum in the real world; here were the Poussins and the Picasso that Anthony had received as gifts from the island and kept here for safekeeping.
And then there was the wall of student art. Here, Anthony paused and grimaced. Not all of it was dreadful, but, well- Mrs. Bell had always had a significantly more liberal definition of "talent" than Blunt. Some curating would be necessary.
Finally, in one corner, sat a small bookshelf. Anthony had had one of the members of the building crew construct it for him, and had already begun to fill it with art texts and books of prints that those visiting the gallery might find interesting. Now he approached to add two more book on the shelf: Virgina Woolf's To The Lighthouse and Winter Movement by Julian Bell. Neither were actually art related; both felt appropriate all the same.
"Yes, yes this will do very nicely," he murmured, and turned as he heard someone come in through the wide-open door.
[Timed to mid-afternoon. See post in slated for details]