5/9/08 - Northstar
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=NYC= The Guggenheim Museum - Midtown - Manhattan
The Solomon R. Guggenheim museum is perhaps the most famous of the several museums operated by the Guggenheim Foundation. Certainly one of the most famous museums in New York, Frank Lloyd Wright's distinctive architecture is as much a part of the exhibit as the modern art showcased within. Inside, among the spiraling walls of the gallery, the works of hundreds of modern artists are displayed. Salvador Dali, Henri Matisse, Jackson Pollock, Edouard Manet, Vincent van Gogh, Andy Warhol, Pablo Picasso, and Man Ray are just a few of the artists whose work is found among the Guggenheim's galleries. A popular tourist location or a way to escape the hectic pace of the city, the Guggenheim is an unmissable destination for all enthusiasts of modern art.
The Guggenheim is, of all museums, uniquely laid out for a man of Xavier's stamp. It is full of old things. Expensive things. Beautiful things. And the entire museum is, in its swooping way, a massive wheelchair ramp -- convenient for one of limited mobility, even if his ride is augmented by a certain erratic technopath. He strolls in his own fashion around the great loops, his fingers light on the controls, eyes hooded under the smooth stroke of his brow. Clad in a silk grey suit and expensive, understated elegance, he looks some of what he is: rich, tasteful, intelligent. The 'telepath' and 'slippery as a greased weasel' must be inferred.
Northstar is standing in front of a work on loan. It's a layout sketch for Picasso's 'Guernica' and he stares at the penciled images of cubist war and destruction as though trying to divine meaning. He is dressed well, in standard business fare for a person of moderate income and good taste, all in stark shades of black and white today, with the crisp French linen shirt unbuttoned at the throat and a somber silver tie loose, though both buttons of his black suit jacket remain closed. At the sound of the wheelchair, he turns his head and one eyebrow goes up. He nods, fractionally, should the man in said chair make eye contact.
Eye contact is a given. The flutter of surface thoughts, detected in the periphery of mental vision like ripples on a murky pond draw the Professor's glance aside between one piece and the next. The nod is reciprocated with silent courtesy, the slightest dip of that polished head answering Northstar's acknowledgment. His is an infamous face, for those interested in mutants and politics. Or mutants and news. Or mutants and education. Or -- mutants, singular, unique, distinctive. The wheelchair purrs low-voiced as he turns it to join the younger man before the sketch.
Northstar's mind is trying very hard to focus on the picture because at the corners of it lurk images, memories that are entirely too crimson, black and violent to dwell on. He looks back at the picture and clasps his hands behind his back. His voice is level and his tone respectful as he says quietly, "I never liked cubist or impressionist art when I was a child. Too nebulous. Symbolism escaped me." Not exactly a standard hello but his thoughts ripple at the idea of making small talk with one of the most famous people involved in mutant issues.
"And as an adult?" Xavier asks, his voice proving as warmly modulated in person as it has been in the news. The British accent curls around its edges, making polished stones of the consonants and rounded vowels. Dry amusement layers under it, lapping idly at the question. "There is a great deal of symbolism to be found anywhere, if a person is determined to find it -- but cubism is an acquired taste. Even for adults."
Northstar smiles faintly and gives the Professor a sidelong glance. "Most things worth experiencing have to be acquired, in my experience, sir. And most things worth appreciating have to worked for." Engaged in conversation, his subvocalized thoughts become clearer to one who is listening. << He's as smooth as he seems on television. >> The young man continues after a second, "Cubism makes you work. Makes you analyze what you are seeing. Draws in the eye and plays with your perceptions until you can't help but be invested in the work." He shrugs, "Cubists don't talk down to their audience."
The smile reflected in Xavier's baritone only touches his eyes; his mouth, disciplined, retains its grave and serious line. Smooth, forsooth. Delicate telepathic fingers skim across Northstar's surface thoughts before moving on in courtesy, flitting on dragonfly wings across the museum's background of minds. "From a certain point of view," he says, inclining his head. "Perception is reality, as they say."
Turning to more fully face Xavier, Jean-Paul frowns. "The problem with that is by and large humanity's perceptions are limited to violence and fear." He tilts his head towards the sketch. "Even that is an attempt to make sense of the senseless. Hatred and tribalism. Things that haven't changed in six thousand years of recorded history. That's our reality, it would seem."
"Things have changed," Xavier says, and this time his mouth curves, his fingers feathering across the control panel to turn the chair back and away from the display. "In my lifetime, things have changed a great deal. Humanity grows. Humanity learns. History has proven that as well, though as Saki says, perhaps we produce more locally than we can consume comfortably."
Northstar tilts his head and makes an arm gesture that encompasses the whole museum and by extension, the city. "It's a bit late to be extolling the virtues of agrarianism and decentralization, don't you think? Besides, humans are a rapacious bunch. As a species, homeostasis with the world or other species in it isn't built into the DNA." He pauses a moment, thoughtfully. << Which is true, but dancing a little close to the edge. Tone it down, like Doc said. >> His sudden smile is shallow and vapid and his tone is as light and airy as cotton candy. "But hey, what do I know? I just read newsweek and think I'm a brain."
The wheelchair turns itself towards the aisle's line, its adjustment of direction smooth and unhurried. Practiced. "Humanity overcomes biology and instinct every minute of every day, young man," Xavier says mildly, tipping his head towards the sketch with a small quirk of his mouth -- a smile, perhaps, not untouched by irony. "We are more than our DNA or our instinct chooses to make of us. There's evidence enough right in front of you." With another nod, this one of polite farewell, the Professor moves on at a placid pace, a chair-bound man's equivalent to a lazy stroll.
Northstar nods pleasantly at the dismissal and steps back, watching Xavier go. After a moment, he looks back at the sketch and frowns faintly. His voice is quiet and firm as he says, "No." He starts walking the opposite direction, murmuring, "Lovely. But not true." And with that door firmly shut in his mind, he seems to straighten a bit and relax.
Xavier encounters a young man in the Guggenheim. It's a pity about that ethical thing that makes him not read the minds of total criminal strangers.
=NYC= The Guggenheim Museum - Midtown - Manhattan
The Solomon R. Guggenheim museum is perhaps the most famous of the several museums operated by the Guggenheim Foundation. Certainly one of the most famous museums in New York, Frank Lloyd Wright's distinctive architecture is as much a part of the exhibit as the modern art showcased within. Inside, among the spiraling walls of the gallery, the works of hundreds of modern artists are displayed. Salvador Dali, Henri Matisse, Jackson Pollock, Edouard Manet, Vincent van Gogh, Andy Warhol, Pablo Picasso, and Man Ray are just a few of the artists whose work is found among the Guggenheim's galleries. A popular tourist location or a way to escape the hectic pace of the city, the Guggenheim is an unmissable destination for all enthusiasts of modern art.
The Guggenheim is, of all museums, uniquely laid out for a man of Xavier's stamp. It is full of old things. Expensive things. Beautiful things. And the entire museum is, in its swooping way, a massive wheelchair ramp -- convenient for one of limited mobility, even if his ride is augmented by a certain erratic technopath. He strolls in his own fashion around the great loops, his fingers light on the controls, eyes hooded under the smooth stroke of his brow. Clad in a silk grey suit and expensive, understated elegance, he looks some of what he is: rich, tasteful, intelligent. The 'telepath' and 'slippery as a greased weasel' must be inferred.
Northstar is standing in front of a work on loan. It's a layout sketch for Picasso's 'Guernica' and he stares at the penciled images of cubist war and destruction as though trying to divine meaning. He is dressed well, in standard business fare for a person of moderate income and good taste, all in stark shades of black and white today, with the crisp French linen shirt unbuttoned at the throat and a somber silver tie loose, though both buttons of his black suit jacket remain closed. At the sound of the wheelchair, he turns his head and one eyebrow goes up. He nods, fractionally, should the man in said chair make eye contact.
Eye contact is a given. The flutter of surface thoughts, detected in the periphery of mental vision like ripples on a murky pond draw the Professor's glance aside between one piece and the next. The nod is reciprocated with silent courtesy, the slightest dip of that polished head answering Northstar's acknowledgment. His is an infamous face, for those interested in mutants and politics. Or mutants and news. Or mutants and education. Or -- mutants, singular, unique, distinctive. The wheelchair purrs low-voiced as he turns it to join the younger man before the sketch.
Northstar's mind is trying very hard to focus on the picture because at the corners of it lurk images, memories that are entirely too crimson, black and violent to dwell on. He looks back at the picture and clasps his hands behind his back. His voice is level and his tone respectful as he says quietly, "I never liked cubist or impressionist art when I was a child. Too nebulous. Symbolism escaped me." Not exactly a standard hello but his thoughts ripple at the idea of making small talk with one of the most famous people involved in mutant issues.
"And as an adult?" Xavier asks, his voice proving as warmly modulated in person as it has been in the news. The British accent curls around its edges, making polished stones of the consonants and rounded vowels. Dry amusement layers under it, lapping idly at the question. "There is a great deal of symbolism to be found anywhere, if a person is determined to find it -- but cubism is an acquired taste. Even for adults."
Northstar smiles faintly and gives the Professor a sidelong glance. "Most things worth experiencing have to be acquired, in my experience, sir. And most things worth appreciating have to worked for." Engaged in conversation, his subvocalized thoughts become clearer to one who is listening. << He's as smooth as he seems on television. >> The young man continues after a second, "Cubism makes you work. Makes you analyze what you are seeing. Draws in the eye and plays with your perceptions until you can't help but be invested in the work." He shrugs, "Cubists don't talk down to their audience."
The smile reflected in Xavier's baritone only touches his eyes; his mouth, disciplined, retains its grave and serious line. Smooth, forsooth. Delicate telepathic fingers skim across Northstar's surface thoughts before moving on in courtesy, flitting on dragonfly wings across the museum's background of minds. "From a certain point of view," he says, inclining his head. "Perception is reality, as they say."
Turning to more fully face Xavier, Jean-Paul frowns. "The problem with that is by and large humanity's perceptions are limited to violence and fear." He tilts his head towards the sketch. "Even that is an attempt to make sense of the senseless. Hatred and tribalism. Things that haven't changed in six thousand years of recorded history. That's our reality, it would seem."
"Things have changed," Xavier says, and this time his mouth curves, his fingers feathering across the control panel to turn the chair back and away from the display. "In my lifetime, things have changed a great deal. Humanity grows. Humanity learns. History has proven that as well, though as Saki says, perhaps we produce more locally than we can consume comfortably."
Northstar tilts his head and makes an arm gesture that encompasses the whole museum and by extension, the city. "It's a bit late to be extolling the virtues of agrarianism and decentralization, don't you think? Besides, humans are a rapacious bunch. As a species, homeostasis with the world or other species in it isn't built into the DNA." He pauses a moment, thoughtfully. << Which is true, but dancing a little close to the edge. Tone it down, like Doc said. >> His sudden smile is shallow and vapid and his tone is as light and airy as cotton candy. "But hey, what do I know? I just read newsweek and think I'm a brain."
The wheelchair turns itself towards the aisle's line, its adjustment of direction smooth and unhurried. Practiced. "Humanity overcomes biology and instinct every minute of every day, young man," Xavier says mildly, tipping his head towards the sketch with a small quirk of his mouth -- a smile, perhaps, not untouched by irony. "We are more than our DNA or our instinct chooses to make of us. There's evidence enough right in front of you." With another nod, this one of polite farewell, the Professor moves on at a placid pace, a chair-bound man's equivalent to a lazy stroll.
Northstar nods pleasantly at the dismissal and steps back, watching Xavier go. After a moment, he looks back at the sketch and frowns faintly. His voice is quiet and firm as he says, "No." He starts walking the opposite direction, murmuring, "Lovely. But not true." And with that door firmly shut in his mind, he seems to straighten a bit and relax.
Xavier encounters a young man in the Guggenheim. It's a pity about that ethical thing that makes him not read the minds of total criminal strangers.