fandomhigh | Blank Page Art Club, Art Classroom, Monday 2/16 (After Classes)

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!club: art

Blank Page Art Club, Art Classroom, Monday 2/16 (After Classes)

It wasn't by intention or design that Katchoo made it down before everyone else did this week, unless you meant by the intention and design of a cute and innocuous little clock who'd pestered her and pestered her until she headed down just to find that she was the first one there.

With a shrug, she got all the supplies out, set up an easel for herself in the corner, and got to work after putting up a sign that read:

Georgia O'Keefe had flowers. What's your metaphor?

It wasn't really a discussion question. It was just sort of there -- she wanted to see if the dirty implications hadn't occurred to anyone yet, and how they'd react.

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Claire smiled an odd sort of smile when she realized what her answer to the question had to be.

"Death," she announced. "Death is my metaphor."

... and she wondered why people thought she was morbid.

Cal told himself he should have kept that laughing grin off his face, but he couldn't help it. Claire was just adorable when she was being so...macabre.

"For what?" he asked, smirking.

And maybe blushing a little bit, too, because, come on. Geogria O'Keefe and metaphors, here.

It took Claire a second to answer because his smirk required she smile back at him, and it was probably so cute everyone else in the room wanted to puke.

"For, like, everything," she said, looking at her shoes because this was too sincere to really share with everyone. "If you see how somebody dies, what their funeral is like, you see how they lived. It's like this bizarre little snapshot of everything else."

Intent on mostly just teasing, Cal was a little surprised at the simple sort of truthfulness to the way Claire answered, but pleasantly so. His smirk softened a little, losing some of its cocky sharpness. "Not necessarily," he offered, lightly debating. "I mean, my dad had a full on Greek Orthodox funeral, and he was one of the least religious people I know."

Claire considered that, nodding as she revised. "Maybe more how your community sees you, than who you really were," she tried. "But it's the one thing that happens to everybody, right? It has to mean something."

"But you have to have been born to die," Cal offered. "So maybe that's my metaphor just to counter out yours."

It wasn't; his metaphor, he decided, was red, but he wasn't going to say that. Birth worked; he'd been born twice. And it was ironic, because it was something he'd never be able to create.

Art was deep, man.

"So if yours is birth and mine is death, we have some insanely deep art," Claire suggested. "Kinda ... the whole human condition. Unless there's art about taxes."

Cal considered it a moment, but the curling sneer of an expression he came up with made it clear that he would not be too terribly impressed with art about taxes.

Claire laughed. "Yeah. You look like I feel."

"The only way I can think of how that might even remotely work," Cal mused, "is if it's really modern type, like, tax forms, splattered with red paint, stapled onto corkboard as if crucified, to represent the frustration with the IRS."

"You could probably sell something like that to, like, tax attorneys," Claire mused. "Or really rich people."

"That sounds so ironic," Cal noted.

Which, of course, meant that it had to be a good idea.

"Really rich people hate taxes most, right?" Claire asked. "... we should do an art fair or something and sell stuff before the end of term."

That was totally a linear thought.

Linear like a question mark, maybe. Cal blinked and shook his head to choose one to focus on.

"Could probably talk to that lady who owns the art gallery and steal her space for another exhibit or something, too."

Art that sold, why it sold, making art to sell, them making art to sell -- okay. In Claire's head, if nowhere else, it was linear.

"Ms. York? That would be cool. We need to talk about the whole thing next meeting," she decided. "Club business, and all that."

Cal nodded. "I think that'd be cool, and, I mean, she did that one showcase; she seemed pretty cool about supporting local artists and stuff."

"I'll go talk to her as soon as I know the people in the club are into it," Claire decided, setting that subject aside. "How was library today, anyhow? Ms. Whitaker didn't send us to check in on you for once."

"Yeah, I know!" Cal said with a laugh. "I was even pretending to look busy all hour just in case any of you showed up."

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"Which aspect?" Alice asked, intrigued. "Dying itself, the moment of death, or its aftermath?"

Claire was mostly just talking to talk; it took her a second to refocus on Alice. "Aftermath," she finally said, blinking just a little. "My family runs a funeral home. I've kind of thought a lot about dead bodies."

"I would imagine, in that regard," Alice nodded calmly. "And mortality, one would expect. You would only see the rawness of grief, and not its resolution. Unless funerals do help with that; I've heard conflicting stories."

She had missed her family's funerals; she could never decide if she regretted that or not.

"It depends on who you are," Claire said. "My oldest brother threw a fit at our dad's funeral, 'cause he thought it was all artificial. But I think seeing it helped my mom." She frowned a little. "Not the Nate having a fit part."

"Did it help you?" Alice asked. She quickly shook her head. "Forgive me, that might be a terribly personal thing to ask."

"I brought it up," Claire shrugged. "It ... I don't know. It was one more weird thing in a weird week. Like I didn't think I had an option about it."

"I don't believe I did, either," she mused, "but the other way 'round. I wonder if I should have liked to go, if I could have. I do hope that it helped you, in some manner."

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