Banter Between Friends After Sale Of Painting
by D.W. Knowles
(Best read aloud)
“It is an ignoble age for art,” muses The Artist, performatively picking through his coins.
“Theatre, at least, is alive and well,” grins The Bannister, waving away the cheque with a flourish of his rank.
The Artist, Augustin in some circles, collapses back into his chair without a wasted drop.
“Don’t be snide, Mr. Chalmers; I could wave a drink into your hand if you would only meet me at the docks.”
“The docks! Whosoever had the shine idea to corral the drunk and desperate beside a hundred easy getaways had exactly me in mind when they broke ground.”
“Easy getaways?” smirks the artist, flexing his good eyebrow. “One of us has never signed his articles and it shows.”
“Nonsense! I’ve sailed.”
“You’ve sailed, sure as cargo, and colours, and canaries for the King. However–”
Suddenly, the Artist’s hand is raised to the cheek of his wealthy friend, as if to smack it or lead him to a kiss, but instead he drags his calloused palm down the fresh and scented shave of the bannister’s soft cheek.
“Ow!” objects the Bannister, the Artist’s hand recoiled.
“You’ve not sailed,” grins the Artist, “not as like a sailor sings.”
“I should think,” pouts Chalmers, “that a man of hour trade might reach his point with words, is that not the point of you?”
“Why, have you suddenly a care for my words? Must be you’ve a party and nothing bold to say.”
“You wound me, Augustin. Never would I attend a party without engaging you as fool! To watch you dance for coin and cock is among my sole remaining pleasures.”
The Artist’s silence in their toast was an earned mark of deference.
“What say you of this coup, eh? I’ve not yet had time to canvas paper from the Crabs.”
“Oh, I’m in full support, of course. Well, of the spirit and result, if not the cry itself.”
“How do you mean?” asks the Barrister.
“There is nothing lost by, say, reminding our great parliament that a rope might swing either way. I’d prefer if death had not resulted, I am not so violent as my pen, but a power unthreatened is a beast in a wig.”
They share a grimace for clear and clumsy metaphors.
“Rebellion for the sake of it is not a cause, you must admit. I for one believe in the Channels, as my father did. It’s taken a thousand years to build them, and their refusal to bend on trend,” the Bannister hangs this proudly in the air, “is the design itself applied.”
“Trend, perhaps, might be taken more seriously. Have you an idea the hurry of aesthetics? (“Here we go…”) An idea sparks, from paper, play, or pace of moment, and all at once it floods the Geist, elevated to examination by every member of environment. They are but a morsel, a taste of an idea, a glance not left or right but upwards. A mirror, nay, canvas through which we might examine the dripping oils of ourselves, undry, but hung regardless.”
“Mobilis in mobili,” nods the Bannister, waving over two more glasses.
“Precisely that,” nods the Artist, shaking out his pointing hand. “It is fluid, as the world is, yet we write our lives in stone, projecting that we’ve reached something, achieved The Routine Grand, whilst you won’t set foot in my own virons for fear of certain piracy!”
The Artist tastes his drink in triumph, guard entirely abandoned.
“Oh, how lavishly you paint an empty world, my boy, but I am forced to work in this one. Must I applaud the creak of every stair to climb the case? Nay, I nail down a rug and beat it when it fades. We live in a society, as my daughter says, and it affords you no shortage of freedoms foreign to the other islands.”
It was now The Bannister’s turn to point, selecting vessels of unsavory colours.
“Or there, perhaps–even over there! And let us not forget you do leave, with some frequency–I’ve waved you away from this very seat and cullis. You bring me rum and silks and stories, pleasures that (do not mistake me) I am ever grateful for… but it is your habit to return, without fail you return, so I must demand an answer: why?”
Steam escapes The Artist.
“What have I to say to them?”
They drink comfortably in silence, their heads full of one another, watching vessels come and go, the docks impermanent as bottles on the bar.