25 March, 1895 — London Gallery
The gallery itself was a small venue; four rooms with each wall crowded with pictures and each corner stuffed with sculpture, and crowds milling through the center spaces clutching glasses of wine. Standing room only, not because it was particularly well-attended as art openings went, but because there was no room for furniture. It was fit for purpose — the work featured here was of the more evocative, experimental sort. It wasn't pornography, but it also wasn't anything a well-heeled society family would display in their entry hall. Destined for private collections after the showing had run its course, if the pieces were purchased at all. Emrys had his eye on two of them, but would only make an offer if they weren't taken by others before the gallery closed. He viewed his role as patron as partly funding the process of creation — enabling the artists to bring these works to bear in the first place — but also partly of facilitating the art education of other consumers. He bankrolled the advertising for events like this, for example, and supplied the guests with wine. If any of them were inclined to take a piece home, it was his duty as a patron to cede it to them.
For the sake of the opening a fifth room, typically used as an antechamber prior to entering (keeping the potentially-magical art shielded from the eyes of passersby on the London street) had been magically enlarged to comfortably hold the assembled guests, and it was here the artists were drifting when he arrived, basking in their momentary celebrity and answering eager questions from the guests.
Angelica had beaten him here. This was unsurprising; he knew that she'd been eager, but he had been unwilling to deviate from his usual schedule in order to preempt her arrival. If he arrived any earlier than half an hour late for an event like this, someone would have known right away that he was anxious about something. He didn't know how long she'd been here, or whether she had taken any time to look at the art on display yet or had spent all her time hovering by the door waiting to pounce when he arrived. He shot a thin smile in her direction and let the doorman take his coat. She was talking to a man who worked the admissions committee for the Magical Portrait Gallery. Emrys made his way into the room and took a glass of wine from someone who rushed to bring him one, purposefully losing sight of his wife. He had no doubt she would find him.
For the sake of the opening a fifth room, typically used as an antechamber prior to entering (keeping the potentially-magical art shielded from the eyes of passersby on the London street) had been magically enlarged to comfortably hold the assembled guests, and it was here the artists were drifting when he arrived, basking in their momentary celebrity and answering eager questions from the guests.
Angelica had beaten him here. This was unsurprising; he knew that she'd been eager, but he had been unwilling to deviate from his usual schedule in order to preempt her arrival. If he arrived any earlier than half an hour late for an event like this, someone would have known right away that he was anxious about something. He didn't know how long she'd been here, or whether she had taken any time to look at the art on display yet or had spent all her time hovering by the door waiting to pounce when he arrived. He shot a thin smile in her direction and let the doorman take his coat. She was talking to a man who worked the admissions committee for the Magical Portrait Gallery. Emrys made his way into the room and took a glass of wine from someone who rushed to bring him one, purposefully losing sight of his wife. He had no doubt she would find him.
Lou made this! <3
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