ArchivedLogs:Creative People

Creative People
Dramatis Personae Domino, Iolaus, Jax
In Absentia	2015-03-04 "Today's all about the human contrast of perceiving people only as shades of black or white, never grey."
Location <NYC> MoMA - Midtown East
The halls and galleries of the Museum of Modern Art house one of the most influential collections of modern art in the world. With works from Matisse and Picasso, Rousseau and Gaugin, and pieces as famous and Starry Night, visitors flock to this museum every year to take in the history collected on its walls. Its library houses a trove of influential works, as well, a collection of books on art and art history and files on thousands of artists. The halls of the Museum of Modern Art give an odd mix of feelings as one walks through them. On the one hand, there is an almost hallowed hush to the place as people walk between paintings by some of the great Masters of the art world - from Bacon to Chagall, Dali to Monet, Picasso to Warhol. On the other, the tourists inevitably taking selfies and chatting drivel to themselves and the crowds of many bored looking students break that ineffiable quality into a million pieces. Some areas are quieter than others, some more noisy, each individual section of the museum with its own individual flavor. Up in the architecture and design galleries, there is a new exhibit - 'This Is for Everyone: Design Experiments for the Common Good'. It is slightly quieter than some, as most of the child-crowds tend towards the more famous artists. Standing in front of one of the pieces - a large many-ruffled golden thing - stands a thin, tall man looking consideringly at the artwork. The fine and impeccably tailored modern suit that he wears matches well with his iridescently tan skin and the bright green hair - the whole getup practically screams famous /artiste/. The extra e means special, don't'cha know? The young man beside him actually /is/ a famous /artiste/. Or artist, anyway -- though /admittedly/, Jackson Holland has been in the news a lot /more/ for terrorism these days (or heroics, depending on who you /ask/) than for his art. But his outfit definitely says artist as /well/ -- towards the other end of the spectrum from well-tailored suit, he's in crushed-velvet black miniskirt over shiny-metallic-green mermaid-scale-print leggings, taaaaall VERY stompy purple boots, an asymetrically-cut green and purple jacket paired with brightly mismatched colourful armwarmers. Very colourfully dyed purple-red-blue hair. Sunglasses, though they're inside. And a sketchpad, that helps with the artist look; he has it balanced on a forearm as he stands beside his companion, charcoal pencil in his left hand as he works quietly. "Whose Common Good, d'you think? I mean, some'a the stuff m'husband's been workin' on is stylin' /an'/ -- common-good but I don't think they're exactly linin' up t'praise him quite yet. /I/ think he's an artist, though." His softspoken words come in a veeeery heavy-thick Southern drawl. There are countless reasons why a lost soul might be drawn to the New York area. The land of opportunity, the American Dream, whatever the reason might be it has resulted in New York City becoming the melting pot for the entire country. The Big Apple really does take all kinds. Today it's led a peculiar woman to the Museum of Modern Art. The colder weather means that she can safely hide most of herself beneath plenty of dark clothing, though there are some areas which aren't so easily hidden. Her hands and most of her face have been left uncovered, the dark tint of a pair of sunglasses only doing so much to mask the bleached canvas that is her skin and the large black inkblot surrounding her left eye. Domino always thought it would be a very cold day in Hell before she came back to this corner of the globe, though it really has been a cold year for much of the country. Satan was unavailable for comment. She's already made some connections with one of her contacts in the area. A museum isn't her usual playground, but if one happened to tempt her with a sufficient number of pretty little zeroes following a '4' on a piece of paper... Suddenly art is her new best friend. Now she just has to find the right item to try and steal at a later occasion. After all, having some extra spending cash is never a bad thing. Fortunately, modern art also draws all sorts of eccentric and eclectic types. Like the guy with the bright green hair. She might fit right in! Just so long as he's not standing in front of a large many-ruffled golden -chicken- then all's okay with her world. "Go any more vivid and you kids could be part of the exibit, Springtime and Sushi." Green hair and scale-print leggings, respectively. "Much like common sense, the only thing that is common about the common good is how dangerous it can be." The green-haired man's comment is dry, shaking his head once. "Though I'm not much one to say, I think Micah's work is an artistry in itself - though, perhaps, not the kind that you will find at most museums." When they are addressed, Iolaus turns and looks curiously at the woman, eyes darting over her figure with measuring interest. "Perhaps. Though, it seems that you might dye your hair as well - admittedly, a more traditional color." The man's voice is friendly, if considered. "I hope you're wearing sunscreen, for your sake." His eyes dart to the other man at his side, a question sparking in them. "Depends what kinda museum, I guess. Though maybe it don't depend all /that/ heavy. I /definitely/ seen some prostheses out there that no-questions was art all to themselves. Painted an' styled an' sculpted like pure --" Jax trails off with a small bounce on the toes of his boots, a small tip of his head as he turns to look over Domino. A bright-warm smile tugging his pierced lips upward when she addresses them. "Vivid's kinda what I /do/. Eat, sleep, an' breathe it -- though the day they invite me in t'show here'll be a long ways off yet." His voice is as warm as his smile. His hand tips out towards his friend's bright hair. "I told him a touch'a spring'd be welcome, the run'a ice we been gettin'. Wishful thinkin' on my part, I suppose." Blackened lips quirk into a grin as the albino regards the man with the green hair. "I like to express myself in creative ways. Today's all about the human contrast of perceiving people only as shades of black or white, never grey. Save for an 'author' whom shall not be named." Dom's just lucky that her hair is naturally black. See what kinds of abominations can happen when one tinkers with another's genetic code? "Sunscreen when there's sun to screen, this time of year I'm happy to rock the winter camo." As for Mister Vivid, trimmed black brows hook upward behind her sunglasses when she says "So I see. Might need a darker tint before long." Then in regards to Iolaus' green hair, she nods slightly and, oddly enough, agrees with the thought. "Yeah, it's very ..cheery," she says with some hesitation. "Mission accomplished." These guys are way friendlier than she would have expected. With a hint of a frown she motions toward the ruffled gold thingus with a twitch of her head. "You guys seem like experts. What the heck are we looking at here?" All she can see is something which is too large to tuck under her arm and run out the door with. "Art. It's gold. I think. Or maybe it's black." Iolaus, with the pop-culture references - and a all-too-pleased grin on his face. "But that's about all I can say about it. If you want art critique, you're going to have to ask the actual artist." Iolaus' hand reaches out and rests on Jax's shoulder. "When you're getting shown in here, Jax, I think it's time for you to quit your day job. Just... with some notice, please. You're not the one who has to listen to Jane vent." His eyes still study the woman, a curious look on his face. "Wait, /critique/? I don't," Jax rests glittery-nailed (and very charcoal-dust-smudged) fingertips over his heart in mild shock, "critique, I don't -- really believe in that. Art's personal, it's subjective, I mean, maybe art speaks t'you an' maybe it don't but I don't know as there is any real valid metric for what's /good/ art an' what ain't an' even if you want t'get into what's the /meaning/, like, sure, /I/ might have an idea or a feeling or a concept when /I'm/ painting a thing but if someone looks at it an' it inspires a whole totally different feel in them I ain't sure it's any less right or --" He cuts himself off here with a sudden /deep/ flush staining his pale cheeks red. A dip of his head, a sheepish rub at the back of his neck to add grey dust-smudges to a few fingerprint sized ones already /there/. "Apologies, I -- I maybe got /feelin's/ about -- interpretin' art. Um, but if what you're lookin' for is why this piece is /in/ this exhibit, um, it's a 3-D printed sculpture outta MIT's Materials Science --" His fingers flutter briefly in the air, charcoal pencil twirling in between from one finger to the next and the next. "Lab? An' this whole --" He gestures around the gallery they stand in. "Exhibition is explorion' the relationship between new forms of information-sharin' an' sorta -- democratizin' the way we spread knowledge an' design processes an' if it's really as accessible t'everyone as, um, as we like t'think it is." The blush hasn't really faded from his cheeks as he glances back up, first to Domino and then to the large ruffly black-and-gold sculpture. "Guess you can read into that what you want." Eccentric and eclectic, alright. Dom has no more idea of what to make of these two than they seem to make of her. Funny how that works out sometimes. "'Art,' right," she repeats in a low and falsely thoughtful tone. "Of all the things in here, this is one of 'em." When Jax suddenly goes into his rant Domino's attention slooooowly drifts back his way, reaching a pale hand up to hook a fingertip on the corner of her sunglasses, just to pull them down enough so she can stare at the guy from over the top of the black plastic frame. Definitely vivid, this guy. "The red really sets off the leggings," she offers in response to Jax's blushing before lowering her hand and looking back to the sculpture in question. "Looks like a basted turkey to me." ..Right. Acting as if that part of their conversation never took place, she shifts gears and asks "Have either of you contributed to this place, then? Besides openly displaying your radiant auras, and all." Maybe she'll be nice and avoid stealing their work later on. Maybe. "Indeed." Iolaus intones, with feigned great wisdom. This, it seems, involves nodding slowly with one eye slightly more closed than the other. "Would you then argue that it's impossible for something to be /objectively/ well-done? That all art is subjective, and therefore can't be any better or worse than any other? If that's true, I have some paintings to sell the museum for large sums of money," Iolaus teases, eyes twinkling in mischief. "I'd be surprised if it wasn't out of the media lab at MIT. They're usually the ones coming out with this kind of crazy stuff. It's their thing - crazy, blue-sky thinking about design." Iolaus shrugs his shoulders, once. "Went to a couple presentations of theirs back in grad school... on something ridiculous. Designs for self-administering, self-documenting medical care or something like that." He waves his hand once in the air, dismissively. "Anyway, no. I'm not much of an artist. And though Jax's work is /should/ be here, I don't think any of it is yet. Yeah, Sunshine?" Domino's comment doesn't /help/ Jax's blush, cheeks deepening still further -- in fact, his blush seems to seep right /out/ of his cheeks, the air /around/ him tinting faintly red as well. He rocks from heel to toe, hugging his sketchbook against his chest with one arm. In his other hand his pencil is twirling more rapidly, spinning in a blur between his fingers. "I mean, yes -- and no. I'd argue that it's fair difficult to classify nothin' as /good art/ or /bad art/, jus', in /general/. Like lookin' at a paintin' an' sayin' this painting is trash, this paintin' ain't art, this painting is bad, that's pointless. But that don't mean there's nothin' that can't be well-done, that's a whole different question an' it depends what your /aim/ is? Like if I'm /tryin'/ to go for hyper-realism in portraits I'm gonna need a real good handle on life drawin' an' shadin', I'm gonna have to learn a good grasp of textures, if I want to work with vivid colours I'm gonna need to learn about how they play together, learn about different lightings -- so you absolutely can get better at your craft, get better at your goals. But I think that's a whole 'nother thing than the -- usual tendency people have t'come to modern art museums an' write whole swaths'a it off as this-ain't-even-real-art, y'know? Like it don't speak t'/them/ so it got no value?" Slowly by now his blush is fading, though his pencil still twirls quick and rapid between his fingers. He shakes his head at Iolaus and Domino both. "Oh, gosh, me? Naw. My stuff's -- not nowhere like this. Not /yet/," he adds with a lopsided grin. It's a grin that's soon to fade, though. His teeth catch at his lip ring, wiggle it once. "... self-administering... what, like. Robot... EMTs?" Just a conjecture, sure, though there's a faintly discomfited edge to his voice with the question. "Maybe not that ridiculous." One of the last things Domino had expected to find here was an entertaining conversation, yet there's something about these two which has her looking genuinely amused. Or maybe it's because she might have just started an argument between the two. Those can also be fun. "Ooo, shots fired," she teases from the sidelines. "Though hey, there's a million and one wrong ways to do something. I suppose the way to work that system is to make sure whatever you've made isn't supposed to be done 'right' in the first place. It's worked for Microsoft," she offers with a partial shrug of her own. With the next round of ranting she not-so-subtly leans toward Iolaus, siding "I think your boy's about to blow a gasket." But darnit if it isn't some kind of entertaining to watch! She actually holds a hand up at the end, trying to get the poor guy to calm down some. "-Breathe,- kiddo. No one's gonna shank you for having some independent thought." Here she pauses for a moment before frowning anew, once more siding to Iolaus "He's not gonna get shanked for having independent thought, is he?" With the subject of self-administering medical care, she suggests "Like tying a string to a door to knock out a tooth? Some people aren't half bad at taking care of themselves, you know." If she wasn't so damned lucky she probably would have killed herself a few times over by now. Mind the scars. "There's this artist who forges money as conceptual art. Alters it so that it has his face on it - and then buys stuff with it - as art, not as money." Iolaus says, waggling a finger at Jax and grinning at him. "I don't know if I'd qualify that as /art/. Performance art, maybe, but not art. Just forgery - albeit one done with good intentions.' He bumps Jax's shoulder once, a friendly gesture. "I said, when I was in grad school. So, back before the automobile, remember?" Iolaus turns the grin on Domino, shaking his head. "Nah. I encourage my people to have independent thoughts. Some of my staff might not agree," Iolaus adds, chuckling. "His boss, for example, has no problem with independent /thought/, just not independent /action/. Or talking. Or... well. Lots." He winks at both of them, nudging Jax again. "I'm calm," Jax protests with a small laugh, a crinkle of his nose, a dip of head that spills brightly-dyed hair down in a floppy mop of mess over his forehead. "Jus' -- get kinda enthusiastic. About art. Everyone's got their things, right? Anyway, if people want t'shank me for havin' /art/ opinions it woulda happened already, I went t'art college? Debates there get --" He has an exaggerated mock-shudder here. "Heated. But I'm harder t'shank than I look." He stops his pencil-twirling, tucking the pencil behind his ear instead and now curling both arms around his chest, still hugging his sketchpad close. "You're wrong there, sir. Jane talks sharp but she's all /about/ independent action. If we couldn't think on our feet she'd fire us in half a second. You really think she wants me callin' her up for instructions when I'm on duty? That's when you need to make your own calls, an' fast." His attention turns back to Domino, tongue poking into the side of his mouth. "Some people've /had/ t'be fair good at takin' care'a themselves. But I think he was more -- talkin' about -- automation?" His head shakes uncertainly. "I don't know. I ain't sure how far I'd /trust/ most'a the folks with the resources t'be throwin' at automatin' healthcare right about now, though." "Crazy," Domino thinks aloud while slowly shaking her head. "There's gotta be a fine line between performance art and con art." ..Wait. 'Before the automobile?' "I wouldn't have pegged you as being -that- old." Then when he mentions 'his people' there's a part of her which can't help but picture some kind of underground art cult. It's way more amusing than troubling, as far as thoughts go. "Now there's a dying art." "Sure y'are," she then teases Jax when he claims to be calm. "Get a lot of throw-downs there between people with rainbow-colored hair and those following the latest trends in body mods? They should make a Reality show about that." While she doesn't say as much, having the pencil behind Jax's ear seems like the safest place for it to be right now. If he fiddled with it any further he might have more black in his ensemble than the albino does. Dipping her head once, she agrees "Alright, you've got a point. Can barely trust anyone to brush their own teeth anymore. Robots and medicine, I just ..no," she then shakes her head while her hands seek out her hips beneath her longer coat. "That's a -hell- no. All I can think of with 'automated healthcare' is an assembly line at a Chevy plant full of hospital beds." Now there's a painting she hasn't yet seen. Iolaus chuckles and winks at Domino. "I age well, I guess?" He chuckles, shrugging his shoulders. "Robots have their place in medicine. But there should be people behind the controls - people with degrees. While there's some very interesting research in diagnostics coming out of IBM, I'm a bit too... luddite to close down my clinic and turn everything over to the machines." He wrinkles his nose and shakes his head. "No, no. It's not there yet. I may be out of business some day down the road, but not yet. I think medicine is better for it. For now." "Though, maybe if your child has their way, that day will be sooner than later. B is determined to drive me - along with most other people - out of business." Despite the words, Iolaus' smile is an easy one. "I suppose it's not fair since they're not even at college yet, nevertheless having all these letters after their name like me." "B's brilliant an' all this technology, it's... I mean, I ain't sure it's the /robots/ I don't trust. It's just that robots means a whole lot of fundin' goin' into /makin'/ the robots an' that means someone's profiting and -- I don't imagine that company's gonna be any less bloodthirsty-capitalist than the bulk'a the medical system is -- no offense, sir," Jax adds with a small dip of his head to Iolaus. "An' once you start outsourcin' people's lives straight to a company -- like, sure, hospitals and pharmaceutical companies an' all is companies but the doctors an' nurses an' medics handlin' patient care, /they're/ still /people/ an' even if the system is screwed up, they can still make the good calls when it comes down to it. If you've outsourced the decision makin', the /programming/, to a corporation, that ain't gonna end with nothin' good. An' I don't think I'm comin' outta left field when I say that I severely doubt they're gonna be keepin' the best interests in mind of --" He turns his scarred hand upward in a small helpless gesture. "... pretty much anyone at the bottom of the food chain." Sadly for Domino's fears, he's retrieved his pencil again through all this chatter. Though he's not spinning it, this time; he's opening his sketchpad to a blank page, tipping it up to hold it towards his chest braced against an arm again, putting pencil to paper. The drawing (in kind of surrealist style) that is forming on the page, though -- what can be glimpsed of it at an angle, at least -- it's forming there /way/ faster than could be accounted for even by the rapid strokes of his pencil. Springing to life in shades of grey and black and white at a rapid rate. An assembly-line factory. Huge mechanized machines -- robotic arms that, rather than assembling cars, are hovering to piece people in identical rows of hospital beds back together. Blink. Well now, this is a most curious development... Dom had these two pegged as artists. Or art fanatics. Or something dealing with that whole vein of thinking. Now Iolaus is mentioning not wanting to close down -his- clinic? Getting a steady supply of contracts is all well and good but in her line of work there tends to be a -lot- of injury. If she's hearing this right... Oh, and there's also mention of someone else driving him out of business. Could she be so lucky, after all? There's only one way to find out. Now Iolaus has her immediate attention. "Am I hearing you right, that you're running a clinic against odds not in your favor?" Sure it's a risk, but when -isn't- it where she's concerned? A silent glance is passed between the two before she quietly removes the shades from her face, finally regarding the Day-Glo Hair Pair without any visual interruption. Then she sees the picture springing to life on Jax's sketchpad... Then a shiver rolls through her spine. "Friendly competition can be all well and good but sometimes..things need to be taken up a notch," she quietly 'suggests' while trying to gauge any reactions from the two. "I happen to appreciate the way healthcare is set up as it is. Might be that we'd each have something of interest to the other." Iolaus gives Domino a curious look. "Against odds not in my favor? An odd way to put it. I suppose so. Non-profits are never a very fiscally responsible investment, and mine is perhaps less so than most." He grins and shakes his head, glancing at Jax. "But we don't have any competition, friendly or not. I wish we did; the more, the merrier. All we have is opponents, and they're not standing in our way very much anymore." The doctor studies Domino carefully, tilting his head slightly to one side. "Why do you ask?" Jax's hair shifts in colour, morphing to a uniform pastel pink, its shaggy mop blossoming into a mass of poofy curls instead. "Naw," he tells Iolaus cheerfully, "the odds are /ever/ in your favour." The drawing on his page is continuing to grow -- and come alive, now, the machines actually /moving/ on the paper. Assembling people. Attach a limb here, insert a heart there, roll one person off their cot and out the room to make room for the next. The tip of his tongue wiggles at his lip ring. "But, no, outside our community our clinic ain't won itself a lotta friends -- oh /you/ say not standin' in the way very much anymore but," as he turns in some bewilderment to Iolaus, for the first time in this conversation his voice actually /is/ rising, a very faint /edge/ to it, his brows hiking up sharply and the faintest of shivers to the light around him -- but just as quickly it subsides back into his previous gentle drawl. Crooked smile. "... well. I guess if you think that we're doin' our jobs proper good, ain't we?" He pushes a slow breath out. One of the machines on his page tears a heart /out/ of one of the patients (a young boy with clawed feet and bat-wings). Shunts them out of the room, inserts the heart into the next (altogether human-looking.) "Of interest? 'pologies, what sorta work is you in?" Hmmh. It isn't -quite- the answer Domino's looking for, but not all is lost just yet. How to answer Iolaus' next question? As it turns out, colorful Jax standing next to them both might be her proverbial ace in the hole. She just has to avoid looking too closely at Jax's sketchbook, lest she get mesmerized by the drawing come to life. In somewhat gruesome detail, at that. It need not make sounds to accompany the animations for her to hear them in her head. "I'm something of a trouble-shooter," she replies with a light smile, forcing herself to keep eye contact between the two. (Ignore..the sketchbook...) "Creative solutions for creative people. I understand where you're coming from." Here she motions to Jax, in particular, with her sunglasses in hand. "And that there's not the best support network when troubles arise." Even she knows when to keep from pushing her luck too far. Content to leave things 'comfortably vague,' she follows up by pulling a business card out of a coat pocket to offer to Iolaus. It's actually fairly stylish, designed front and back to look like a Domino playing piece. One face is blank, save for a phone number. The other has naught but a single white pip in the center. "If either of you happen to have any troubles which conventional methods cannot resolve... Any hour of the day. Enjoy the rest of the exhibit, kids." "Not standing in front of isn't not /protesting/ out front of. Or taking shots at. Or bombs, for that matter" Iolaus says, laughing dryly. "I meant more in terms of officially sponsored actions, rather than tacitly sponsored ones - or covertly sponsored ones, if you believe the rumors that have been going around the clinic after the last incident." Iolaus shrugs his shoulders, nodding once to Jax. "Certainly, though, there is much of the other sort of opposition. Not the sort, I'm afraid, that money solves. Only time." He pauses at this, contemplating. "Though money certainly helps." Iolaus glances at Jax as he reaches out cautiously to accept the extended card from the woman. He turns it over and back again, brow furroughed as he considers this. "T...hank you. I'll certainly keep you in mind." For all his easy smiles and warm tone there's a distinctly harder alertness in Jax when Domino reaches towards Iolaus -- not so much tense as /sharp/, a fraction straighter in his posture, the drawing on his page freezing for a heartbeat as his sunglass-shaded eyes meet her uncovered ones. And then it passes, there and gone in a flit; he lifts his hand towards his head as his hair shifts back to its previous multicoloured shaggy mop. Though there was no hat there before one appears, a large silver-trimmed black Stetson that he tips to Domino. "Creative. Huh. Y'have a nice day." His shoulder bumps up against Iolaus's, light and easy as he nudges the other man off towards the rest of the gallery. "C'mon. You wanted to see this exhibit /an'/ I gotta get lunch int' you 'fore your meetin'."