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It was late afternoon when Aline left the council chambers. The day had been productive if not formulaic. The date for the evaluation of a new aspirant had been set, preparations for the Painters summit come summer had begun, as well as the rotation of displayed pieces among their galleries. A topic inviting much contention, owing to the fact that every single one argued that the works of lovers, family or trainees should be afforded priority. Of course nobody put it in such crude terms, it was simply a coincidence that Jacque just happened to believe that the Painters most worthy of being displayed were his own nieces, or only happenstance that Marie argued fervently that Jacob deserved the most coveted locations and that Jacob in turn argued that Marie was the one who should have them.
To her own embarrassment she could not truly claim to be above it this season. Clea was old enough and had been judged worthy enough to display exclusively under her own name, no longer needing to credit tutors or collaborators as was the custom when children or aspirants displayed their work. Aline soothed her own embarrassment by telling herself that what she was engaging in was not crass favouritism, Clea was a true master, her relative youth only strengthened that proposition. The rest of the council as well as the members of its body, knew this, they had too. No one should begrudge Aline the privilege of arguing that a truly skilled Artist deserved the chance to demonstrate their craft to the community and public. That the skilled Artist happened to be her daughter, was wholly beside the point.
The day had ended with the news that Canvaswalking had taken place outside the sanction of the guild. Pieces had been located in an abandoned apartment, only days old. Traces of the chroma belonging to not just the creator, who was unknown, but also others, also unknown, had been found within the works. Most distressingly, the pieces had displayed the bank of Paris, specifically what had seemed like interior spaces. All but one Canvas, in the interest of preserving a trace of the perpetrators chroma, had been burned. The one remaining now sat in a locked vault that only Aline and Beatrice, the council's second, had the keys to. The bank, police and Mayor's office had been promptly informed of the affair. If all went well, the prospective thieves would get cold feet when realizing their scheme had been detected, or the preparedness of the relevant institutions would abort such an attempt before it truly could even begin.
Aline shaked herself out of the day's work. She was no longer presiding over deliberations or protocol. The air was filled with spring, so she savored it on her way across the City. Her destination was a small but prestigious gallery situated not many blocks from the quarters of the council. It was not one of theirs. Instead this one was patronised, if she remembered correctly, by a young nobleman with a particular fondness for their Craft. If he was a personal friend of Clea, or if simply her notoriety and burgeoning fame had attracted attention, she did not know.
Another consequence of more and more of Clea's life being lived in separation from that of Alines and Renoirs. It still intersected plenty, but outside of the time when the Dessendres was required as a unit, her absence from the manor, or their increasing separation when within it, was growing. In fact, both of her elder children had begun to drift. But in a manner very different to one another. Verso was not truly an adult yet, however this did not stop him from making friends whom she barely knew the name of, nor did it stop him from straining against curfews or seemingly lingering when on planned excursions, in Paris, or more lately, outside of it. Worse was his evasiveness when she asked to know. He was more forthright with Renoir, but even then, when she asked her husband, he often simply shrugged and stated their son simply had begun to build a life away from home. If that was the case, then why was she not allowed in?
Clea was not evasive, nor did she strain the way Verso did. Verso would still walk with her, he would laugh with her and regale her of unimportant anecdotes and when fancy took him he would play piano for her and Renoir both. Clea did these things less and less, and they had not been frequent to begin with. The tutorship of her daughter had also ended not too long ago, but their absence had since been felt. Before a not too insignificant time of each week had been spent in the company of her daughter, discussing her progress, her Craft and the expanse of her creativity. Now that time had been replaced with nil, it happened occasionally that Clea requested a review of a particular work, but the following discussions were no longer as fruitful or expansive as they once had been. Clea would not shy away from speaking of her life, but she would rarely do so unless prompted.
Both of these things had seeded a growing sadness within Aline, a sense that her children drifted away from her in a way that barred her from joining them.
This was why she was on her way to this particular gallery, she knew, courtesy of Verso, that Clea was displaying one of her works this afternoon. In meeting her daughter under the auspices of art, she hoped that spending time would be, for lack of a better word, less awkward.
As she approached the building, a construction partially of glass, she spied a motley crowd loitering outside. Not more than a dozen, she identified a few of them as aspirants, the young men and women were laughing and joking, it was Saturday, prime time for youngsters reveling the hours in each other's company. When she passed the group to head inside they were too absorbed to notice her approach, Which was for the best, she did not want to accidentally stifle what seemed like a genial gathering.
Once inside she was immediately greeted by a man in a stylish but not overtly gaudy suit. At first the man approached with a lazy smile, seemingly by routine, but after a moment of comprehension his expression went from expectantly placid to apprehensive and then finally to naked enthusiasm. He eagerly gave her a handshake and with barely contained composure greeted her.
“Madam, I am honored that the head of the Painters Guild greets our humble gallery. Your skill and renown is well known by my employer, as well as myself of course.”
Continuously shaking the man's hand she ran through the usual greetings. That she appreciated his compliments, that she was honored by their acknowledgment and wished the establishment all future success. She did not remember exactly who this employer was, but clearly, the caretaker was too beside himself by her presence to care or notice.
In the middle of it a familiar voice called out to her.
“Maman?”
Clea had appeared beside them and caught both of their attention. The caretaker at first seemed mildly confused, but like before, comprehension quickly found its way to his features. He began nodding so vigorously that she almost feared the man would snap his own neck.
“Ofcourse, I will leave you to it, please peruse the collection at your leisure. My employer prides himself on featuring the rising stars of the Craft.”
He let go of her hand and made his way to an adjacent desk, snatching a phone mounted to the wall. No doubt reporting her auspicious visit to the owner.
She put the enthusiastic man out of her mind and turned towards her daughter. Clea was clothed in a plain dress, but she could see her shoes were polished to a shine, as well as silvered bangles on her wrists. Which was within norm, she never clothed herself in ostentatiousness on these occasions, she noted however, that the silver bangles were new.
Clea looked confused and unless Aline imagined it, even somewhat frustrated. In an instant the prospect of an uncomplicated afternoon with her daughter wavered. But Aline was a stubborn woman, and would not back down with the first sign of adversity. So she braced herself.
“I heard you put up a recent work on display. I wanted to see both you and the piece.”
Then she hastily added. “If you would allow me.”
Clea's brows knit together like she was trying to figure something out, and then with a look towards Aline she couldn’t quite place, snorted.
“Well, if that is what we want to call it.” Clea then indicated for her to follow.
They entered a corridor and Aline took a gander at the works on display, not all of whom were Painted. The custom was that pieces created via the Craft were displayed with each other and vice versa. This gallery however seemed to have chosen to mix and match the displays. If there was an overarching theme she would need more time to discern it. That could be a good topic to bring up with Clea.
Approaching a larger Canvas down the halls, Aline spotted another person. It was Simon, standing leisurely in front of the piece, dressed in a jacket and suit, she noted that his beard had recently been shaved clean.
As they approached, Clea cleared her throat. “Simon” she called.
The man turned around and for a brief moment he blanched when noticing Aline's presence. It was however microscopically brief, as he soon righted his countenance to one of warm greetings. Simon was a longtime friend of Clea, Aline had rarely seen him when Clea demonstrated her work, but as far as she knew this was the first time Clea had truly done so independently, so she imagined his presence was appropriate for the occasion.
As Clea and Aline reached Simon he held out his hand in greeting, which Aline took.
“Greetings Madam, it is good to see you.” While his lips were turned up in a smile, Aline sensed fear, maybe even panic behind his eyes. This was strange, had something happened? Did Clea do something?
In light of her objective she decided it was no time to pry.
“I am happy to see you attend Cleas opening like this, it is heartening to see one of her closest friends also celebrate her work.”
“Well… I am just happy to… um.” As Simon answered he seemed to grow more and more confused, before turning to Clea in an expression of total disorientation. In what Aline surmised as almost pleading. What was happening?
Clea turned towards her and the look she gave was one of deadly intent. Whatever Aline had intended for the afternoon, she had truly did a horrible job of it. In a last attempt at salvaging the encounter she powered on.
Releasing Simon's hand she turned to Clea. “I see only Simon, I would have imagined many more would be interested, or do you expect the rest will arrive at a later time.” Clea could have requested the gallery announce her presence later in the evening, it would be unorthodox, but feasible on a saturday.
Simon shifted his face back and forth between them and then with the meekest voice Aline had ever heard exiting his mouth said. “The rest?”
Clea violently grabbed Aline's arms and stared her square in the eyes. Fury radiated from them. “Aline” she growled, and indicated towards the large canvas behind them. This one was Painted, a true Canvas. She presumed Clea's display.
Clea shifted towards the piece and stared until Aline did the same. Both reached out to the chroma and plunged. Immediately Aline noticed something was wrong, she knew her daughter's chroma, and whatever this Canvas held, was not hers. As they materialized into a field of wheat, flanked by alpine mountains with crystal waterfalls and to the backdrop of a frozen sunrise another strange wrongness presented itself. Clea would not ever paint something like this willingly, she could and would if compelled, or to challenge herself, but as Painting wholly her own, it lacked her style, her preferred context. Worst of all, it was subpar. Where the mountains met the field was rendered poorly, the sunrise took up too much space in comparison to the field and mountains below. It made the whole piece feel vacuous.
As they fully rendered themselves Clea immediately began to berate her mother. “What the hell are you doing!?” Clea never screamed, instead her voice, on occasions where her temper plunged to fury, took on an almost hissing quality. Like an agitated snake.
Now, Aline began to suspect that she had missed something pretty significant, because since arriving not much had made sense, especially the behaviour of Simon and her daughter. However she would not tolerate to be berated, especially when the only thing she had done was express interest in Clea's work.
She folded her arms in front of herself and stared at Clea with a look of disapproval and disappointment, she had rarely if ever had to act this way towards her daughter. This display was usually reserved for when Verso had acted truly out of bounds.
“Clea, I am not here as your tutor or elder, I am here as your mother to support your work and passion. This behaviour is beneath you.”
Clea raised her chin, bracing a retort.
“Most mothers usually wait until they both are home to discuss and criticize the choices of their daughters, and no respectable mother does so with her in front of their…”
Her daughter tapered off and fury gave way momentarily to what Aline could only describe as embarrassment or shyness. It was such a foreign expression on her daughter's face that it somewhat tempered her own rising emotions.
“Clea, dear, it is just a piece like any other.” Aline made her voice as gentle as it could despite her temper to communicate her earnestness. Whatever Clea thought she was here to do, and despite her deplorable behaviour at the moment, Aline needed her to understand that her own presence was meant only as support.
“Mama, he has a name, you can be disappointed in me without disrespecting him. For God's sake, you have known him almost as long as I have.” Now Clea looked genuinely hurt, anger, confusion and the beginning of sadness swirling in her eyes, which was also a thing Aline had rarely seen in her daughter's gaze.
It was then that it dawned on her, it was Saturday afternoon, there were no visitors, contrary to what one would expect when Clea Dessendre displayed something to her fellows and the populace at large. She wore silver bangles and meticulously polished shoes, Simon was clean shaven. She thought back on the youth outside, on how she had come to know of this event, Verso. This Canvas was certainly not her daughters, none of the Canvases in the gallery were, because her daughter was not currently hosting a display.
Aline shrunk into herself and with a shame so intense she had not felt since childhood. “You do not currently display a Canvas here, do you?”
Clea, completely blindsided by the question, opened her mouth, expecting a continuation of the argument she thought she was having with her mother.
“...No…”
Her daughter looked at her, puzzled and now emptied of previous moments of anger.
Aline affected her most genial smile and with every ounce of love contained in her heart for her eldest, laid a hand on Clea's shoulder. “I think I should leave, now, you have a nice night with Simon” She awkwardly patted her daughter on the shoulder. Before exiting the Canvas Clea looked genuinely worried. Which was probably an appropriate sentiment.
As she returned to her body she looked towards Simon, who was still dazed by the exchange moments earlier. She tried to muster the courage to give the man some kind of reassurance or explanation for her behaviour, but none materialized. Instead she mustered a weak smile, which only seemed to intensify his worry and close panic.
She then turned around and with hurried steps made her way towards home.
When she arrived in the dining hall, Renoir, Verso and Alicia were situated at a smaller side table. Alicia was fast asleep in a chair between the two, while Renoir and Verso were in subdued conversation, to the benefit of the sleeping girl.
She entered with heavy steps, shame having now coiled itself deep within her gut, however upon seeing Verso she mustered enough pride to glare at him. He must have been aware, there was no other explanation.
Renoir greeted her with the same smile and nod reserved for occasions where he could not immediately embrace her, this again for sleeping Alicia's benefit.
Verso smirked, he gently stood up and approached Aline in the doorway. With a low voice and feigned ignorance. “How was Clea's display?” Before he walked past her, whistling a low tune.
She approached the chair Verso had just used and sat down, the escapade of today now reminding her physically of her state, as gods forbid, old.
Renoir put his right hand, palm up, on the table. Which she immediately filled with her own.
“My love, if there is any conciliation, let it be known that erratic displays in front of the fancies of one's children, is typically seen as a very motherly thing to do.”
His voice was like honey, and she knew that he retorted to jest in order to make her feel better. Aline only accepted very particular kinds of pity, and Renoir had more licence to it than most.
She looked into his eyes, warm and loving. Deciding that today's events were best left far behind she elected not to broach the topic. Instead she refocused on something much more immediate: “Let’s put Alicia to bed.” After a few moments her husband slowly nodded.