“Thy art is fake,” a man walking by noted.

“Fake?” responded  the artist, still holding onto the canvas.

The critiquer nodded his head. “Allow my explanation, if you may. Take this painting

before us, this one of square shapes.”

“Yes, I titled it Boundaries. The squares represent our rigid class structure and our

conformity to it. I entrust your level of perception to be adequate enough to notice that there are

two squares, side by side, yes?”

A nodd was given in response.

“Excellent, and that this square on our left is many times larger than the one on the right,

yes?”

Another nodd.

“Yes these imply their size in society and how we, the commoner, are but the same mud

walked upon by those of the gold square. Finally, take into consideration how this small square is

one painted in gold, while its partner is a disgusting brown. Such colors represent the squares’

respective financial status and-”

“I have heard enough, Zebelebub.”

“Z’Beleb, Z’Beleb Verit,” the artist corrected, but his words were only met by a raised

eyebrow.

“Z’Beleb, you must be a member of the La’Tines, yes? No matter, your art is fake

because it lacks concrete skill. Yes I so very well understand your societal commentary, but I ask

of thee, why does art matter to you?”

“Art is the chaining down of abstract meaning to a concrete canvas.”

“An understandable definition to be sure, but not a proper answer to the question. I asked

why not what. Last month you presented me with a blank canvas and attempted to call that art.”

“And for what reason was it not? Is not the canvas itself a work of beauty? It presents the

cradle for imagination and beauty to become one in physical form, a place of infinite possibilities

of art, and is the artist’s very lifeline, can you not see that?! It is the very founding of our art

itself and without it we are nothing. Even an idiot can understand the value of stone to a builder

or soil to a farmer.”

“Z’Beleb,” the man began, but was quickly cut off by the artist.

“I apologize for my rashness and ask your pardon. I speak these words only with the

purest passion I have for my art and yet I speak them to many a critic such as thyself and I have

been categorically denied by them all. They have refused my art and my views, and I refuse to

accept such baseless criticisms from the eyes and mouths of the uncultured. Yes I dare such a

term to describe those fools! They understand not the meaning of real art, only the value of the

portraits they paint for the aristocrats or the statues they make of the philosophers of old. How

can they call themselves artists when they create nothing but windows replaced with paint or

stone?! A window, I say, can do their work for them for at least a window is illuminated by the

holy light of the sun and not the glare off their golden coins!”

Beelzebub 2

“Z’Beleb!” the man cried out in impatience.

Z’Beleb took a step back, surprised by the man’s outburst.

“Your art is fake because it lacks originality. You insult the window when you are the

real pane. A commentary on the state of our inequality? A work that speaks on the origins of art?

Do you also care to make a statue of a wheel or forge a drawing of a house?”

Z’Beleb now looked upon his painting with disdain. “Originality, you say?”

The man nodded.

“What is your name, sir? I bothered not to ask of thee last time I was here, so I shall ask it

of thee now.”

“Artis, Artis Oper.”

Z’Beleb gazed upon this man before him with a newfound respect, taking in every detail.

He noted the man’s glasses resting upon his rounded nose as a thinking man would rest his

elbows upon a table. Artis lacked hair atop his head but adorned his jaw with a wisdom colored

gray beard. The hands that stroked his beard were worn and wrinkled, like great canyons etched

away by the rivers of experience and insight. His garb was humble; a simple cloth robe adorned

his form. The man walked about in open-toead sandals, as if to let his feet be at one with the

earth they ruled over. Artis wrapped his rather thick arm around Z’Beleb’s shoulder and walked

with him down the hall.

“You have come here today to present your art to the public, and it is for that very reason

that my employer has created such a hall. To exhibit art, he often tells me, is to show the

people’s condition of their souls. As you gaze upon the sides of these halls, I ask of you to take

in the majesty of the works that adorn them. The statues, the paintings, even the windows which

illuminate them.”

The duo turned the corner at the end of the hall, revealing a wide open theater in the

works. “Soon,” Artis continued, “we will exhibit a theater of which the public, yes the

commoners on the street, shall view shows for no cost but their attention and smiles.”

Artis and Z’Beleb walked across the area to the hall on the other side of the “U” shaped

structure with the open air theatre in the open section. “Z’Beleb, for many moons I have dreamt

of adorning these halls with brilliant works, perhaps even one of my own, but within your heart I

detect the soul of a true artist. Return to your home, and visit me again tomorrow.” Artis placed

his hand on Z’Beleb’s shoulder. “Within you I place my trust, do not prove to me that it has been

misplaced. True art is the transfer of the imaginary into reality, show me the power of your

reality.”With that, Artis took his leave. Z”Beleb walked to the door of the hall and gazed out into

the world.

Z’Beleb picked up his paintbrush and stared at his canvas. “The vexing paradox of art, to

be inspired by that which exists to create that which does not. Artis spoke of originality, but I

fear his standards may be beyond my capabilities.”

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