Verity had always enjoyed visiting, since the way it had been created allowed visitors to wander from display to display on a whim. For those in favour of the softer paintings, gentle flowers, birds, animals, children, and so on, there were pale walls near the natural light of the windows, and featuring art created by artists who excelled at that sort of thing.
For others who might prefer their art with a rougher and more vivid edge, there were rooms with darker walls and elegant lanterns hanging from the ceiling, highlighting the textural brushstrokes of ocean storms, rough mountain hillsides, or airships flying through bad weather.
The portrait galleries, always popular, featured a blend of both light and dark backgrounds, with windows at one end and lights at the other.
In the past, she had indulged in one or two paintings and was always on the lookout for something that caught her eye. However, today, might not be a good day to even think about buying anything.
Albermarle de Montclair’s exhibit filled several walls at the rear of the gallery.
The artist himself, sat in the farthest nook, apparently lost in the creation of his latest masterpiece—a striking canvas alleged to be the sun reflecting off five brass gears lying in a field. To be titled, at its conclusion, “The Lightness of the Machine”.
At leastly that’s what the program said.
Verity stood for a few minutes, attempting to follow de Montclair’s style. This little section was reserved for the artiststhemselves. Some simply enjoyed discussing their work and art in general, and then there was de Montclair.
He was dramatic in his movements—Verity barely managed to avoid a splatter of paint as he exuberantly splashed yellow on his canvas.
The assembled audience was, apparently, impressed, and the “ooohs” and “aaahs” were clearly audible, obviously emanating from the group that had avoided being dappled with yellow blobs.
Far enough away to avoid being part of the exhibit, Verity watched de Montclair.
She doubted he was an artist. He just didn’t fit the mould for her. There was no care, no concentration or focus that she could see. Every now and again he’d pause, put the back of his hand against his forehead, and close his eyes for a minute or two, which had the desired result. A hush—a reverent silence—fell, only to be broken when de Montclair recovered himself and continued throwing paints at his canvas.
In her eyes, he had missed his vocation, since he was better at acting than painting.
She had noticed that the front of the gallery featured his “works”, if you could dignify them with such an appellation. Even beautifully framed, and positioned in exactly the right spot to collect the light from outside? They were hideous.
“These are abysmal.”
A soft voice whispered in her ear, and she swung around to find Lucas close behind her.
Words died in her throat as she looked at him, his clothing strikingly elegant, his eyes holding her captive.
“Hullo.”
She had to clear her throat. “Hullo.” Finding her breath, she smiled at him. “I’m glad to see you, Lucas.”
It was honest, straight from the heart, and she saw the answering warmth as his lips curved, those lips...every single thought in her head fainted, and all she wanted to do was to feel his coat, to see if it was as soft as it looked and then strip if off him as soon as possible.
Blushing at the shiver that thought brought her, she fought for composure. “I wasn’t sure you would be able to make it.”
“I couldn’t have missed the opportunity to see such a great artist at work.”
“Impressive, isn’t he?” Amused, Verity took the arm he extended and let him lead her along the galleries.
“Very,” Lucas answered. “With what one might call a ‘regressionaltechnique’”.
She glanced at him, puzzled. “Really?”
“Didn’t you ever splash paint around when you were three?”
She had a hard time choking back her laughter. “You’re quite dreadful.”
“So’s Albermarle de Montclair.”
That laugh she couldn’t hold back, and it took a few minutes for her to regain any sort of appropriate countenance. Fortunately there were fewer attendees around them, so she was able to catch her breath. “Great coggles, you’re an impudent man this afternoon.” She surveyed him. “And I have to say your clothing today is...”
“Is what?”
