The woman's brow was furrowed some-- her head tilting to either side as she tried desperately to see the hidden meaning that was poured into the canvas. As usual, the rest of her face was void of emotion, flat and unresponsive, still as she studied the abstract colors blending into shapes that were an attempt at symbolism. But symbolism of what? She had been looking at the painting for nearly 5 minutes, and she still had no closer guess, than she had when she first lay her eyes on the painting. Perhaps, now, even less than she had started with.

Was what she looking at really art? Deep grey pools fluttered closed, hoping that when they opened, she would be met with some new profound meaning. She breathed in a deep breath, allowing dark grey orbs to settle a final time on the painting. Nothing. She let out a breathy sigh.

Perhaps she was too tired to see the beauty that was supposed to exude from the paintings on exhibit-- a quote from the pamphlet she had been handed at the door. Perhaps the creative eye was meant only for those who were energized enough to connect dots that weren't there. Maybe she just needed more caffeine. But she would have to wait, at least until she was done touring the art. Drinks weren't allowed in the gallery.

The dark grey gaze turned from the paintings and instead settled towards the windows that lined the wall of the gallery-- they were set high, as to provide natural sunlight, without directly hitting the paintings on display. The sky shimmered with a pinky hue, indicating that outside the sun was setting-- a sight that she could easily envision... the pinks flooding into the oranges and purples, pushing away the once blue skies-- all outlined in frames of stoic clouds. Nothing in this gallery could capture the beauty that was occurring just beyond the walls... could it?

She sighed again, walking towards the next painting. It hung on the wall in an ornate gold frame, though the piece itself was a combination of blues, greens, and blacks swirling towards some splotchy red circle. "What is this even supposed to be?" she questioned, exasperation flooding her voice as she spoke-- an action that she would have stiffled, had she even been aware she was speaking.

As she realized the words that came from her mouth, she sheepishly retracted, pulling the hoodie, which had been flat against her back, up over her head. Just because she wasn't creative enough to see the apparent brilliance behind this work, didn't mean that anybody else felt the same. She would stay still, at least for the moment, pretending to find some deeper meaning of what was in front of her, at least until she was certain that her words held no consequence.

Geb was there in that gallery that day. The reason was to initially compare his paintings to that of the ones of his own gallery back in Oak, to see the competition he was up against, but it soon turned into him just looking at the nice paintings for the fun of it. Even him, who was a rival of this very gallery, had to admit that this art was quite nice. He had studied one of the pieces by talking to some of the employees, and was just taking another look at one of them right now. Ah, what a beautiful painting.. it's meaning and story behind it truly touched Geb. This was true art: this was what the human soul could produce. It was a happy day.

That was, until SHE ruined it.

Geb happened to be standing not next to, but near a girl. And he heard the words muttered, the blasphemy - this girl, who by thee way, was dressed very poorly according to Geb's standards, had just insulted the work of someone who's talent was among the greats. Geb was furious, but in a clam way. He decided, for both the good of the human race's appreciation of art, as well as his own self-reassurance, that he was going to punish this young lady next to him.

Geb turned his head to face the girl. She looked quite tomboyish. Maybe she grew up on a farm or something. In Geb's mind, while those people were quite heathens to those who appreciated finer things in life, he had to admit even they could see the light of the arts. Perhaps he would give this a try.

Stepping one step closer to the girl, he looked over at her. "Tell me, what kind of art is of your liking?" he asked. The best strategy was to know your enemy first. If he were to teach her the joys, it would be useful. It would also serve useful should he crush her in an argument as well.

The bored, sleepy grey orbs fluttered from the painting, to the young man who was now standing a step closer Than he had been before. Her visage remained stoic and blank even as her attention turned to the stranger that addressed her. He was shorter than she was, by an inch or two: and while he was slender, just as she was, she guessed he was sturdier than she. He had an athletic build, from what she could tell-- vastly different from her lanky one. His eyes were crimson, just as hers were, when she was well rested, though she was certain that The eyes staring back at him today we're much more smoke than they were fire. His face still held an air of youth, and she speculated that the boy couldn't be much older than herself. It took her a few seconds to gather such information, and once she had done so, her gaze cast itself back towards the canvas.

She had remained silent, mulling over his question. Lips pursed ever so slightly as she thought of the exponential number of answers, each with an exponential number of responses, systematically sorted into the most likely outcomes. She could choose to be witty, or snarky, or playful... all of which, she had ultimately decided, would do her no good-- as she had no baseline data on his behavioral patterns, other than that he found the need to approach her after her outburst.

Truthfulness, she had chosen, after another moment of contemplation, would be the best route... for now. Her eyes remained glued to the painting, even as she responded to him. "That's the problem entirely..." she began, her voice clear and articulate, gentle and unwavering, "I haven't got a clue what art is to my liking... I was hoping to answer that question myself in coming here today, but I'm afraid I'm more confused now than ever..." she trailed off some allowing a natural lull take over for a moment. "I know there is meaning and emotion that is supposed to be represented here... but I'm not sure where to look. Instead it feels sporadic and disjointed... reckless and rushed." fingertips reached out, parallel to the painting, mimicking the heavy strokes the painter had used.

Her gaze returned to her companion momentarily as she directed the conversation to him. "When I came to places like these in my youth, they always told me just to look... that I would understand when I was older... I'm older now and all I understand is that no one ever taught me how to see what I was looking at..." She was frustrated in her inability to see, and while it wasn't communicated in her expression, her tone was saturated with it. "I Don't suppose you have any tricks of the trade to pass on?" she questioned, her eyebrow raising ever so slightly as she did, leaning her body ever so slightly in his direction, a silent addition to her request.

She held her breath as she waited for a response. She had obviously offended the young man-- at least to some extent that he would say anything in the first place, and now she could only hope that the words she spoke would settle them to at least a moment of mutual understanding rather than further offense.

The girl's words seemed a bit less horrible than what Geb imagined in his mind. Perhaps she was not so bad - perhaps he could still show her the light. So, in a way, this was already one step forwards. Geb decided to listen to what the girl had to say before giving another speech to her.

It seemed like this girl was simply confused to Geb. Geb couldn't help but let out a little chuckle in the middle of this conversation. Ahh, she was so incredibly innocent to the ways of art. He might end up enjoying himself after all. Geb then would clear his throat as he was prepared to speak. He was about to make this girl a very good offer, one that only came once in a lifetime - to be his student.

"Well, you see, it is not something that has a right answer. If I were to ask someone to describe something and how they feel about it, each would be different, no?" he asked as a rhetorical question, as he began pacing with his hands behind his back. "Do not simply think of something as what it is - think of something as what it is to you." he said, closing his eyes, letting a smile show as he paced. He though he was doing pretty good so far.

"The only reason you do not know how to feel is because you are not trying hard enough. You do not care enough to search for these answers, and because of that, you will never know. Try a little harder, but don't be afraid as to what answer you find, because there is never a wrong or right meaning in art, within reason of course."

"Now, take one more look at that picture, and tell me what it's meaning is. Should you find that answer you've been looking for, I can show you more if you'd like."

"The name's Geb Majura, by the by. Nice to meet you."

The young man cleared his throat before he began his diatribe. Such a physical response, likely meant one of two things: either he was sick, or he was serious about the situation. It was clear to the young woman, even before the red head began his directions, which was the most likely of the two scenarios.

Ari listened intently to the man's direction. Her chin rose up and down methodically, nodding, to show that she was listening, though her gaze returned to the painting, hoping the absorption of his words would magically give her some artistic epiphany.

She remained silent, letting the young man's words and the soft, methodical echo of his steps against the floor as he paced lull her into a trance, as she searched for whatever meaning that the painting was supposed to have. There were scribbles and blotches and swirls. She saw all of them. She had seen them when she first looked. They were still there, the longer that she looked, and the mere suggested of the man's statement did nothing to magically transform them.  

Tension crept into her muscles as the young man continued talking. "The only reason you do not know how to feel is because you are not trying hard enough" Her jaw clenched some, though it was a minute shift. She found it exasperating that whatever effort she had put in before, was somehow not enough. Fingertips pressed into palms, as she allowed the frustration to work through her entire being. Perhaps, this man's pompous words would edge her closer to understanding, if only to a knee jerk reaction of proving that it was not a lack of effort.

As he prompted her to look at the painting again, the woman let out the breath that she had been withholding, and with it, her frustration, and the tension it had caused.

"Think of something as what it is to me..." she echoed, fingertips raising to her hood, allowing it to fall against her back again. She leaned forward, her vision now unaltered by the hood's shadow, to study the painting once more. She allowed the brush strokes to blend together-- focusing instead on the composition of the colors and how they worked together-- rather, against one another?

Grey eyes stared intently: constantly focusing, and refocusing on the canvas. Lips moved, whispering silent words and phrases, as she desperately attempted to find the vernacular to describe what the painting was making her feel.

She remained entranced for a few moments, ignoring entirely the man's introduction. She had heard it, certainly, and already taken it to memory, but she refused to let it distract her from the task at hand. It wasn't until she took a step back from the picture that she responded to him at all.

"I get a feeling of collective isolation. While the colors are all together, they don't blend or bleed. There's movement, but it's disjointed, which would signify..." she searched for the words "Distrust?

"Like working towards a common goal but lacking the synergy to be efficient. But I'm new to this, so I'm probably way off the mark..." She chuckled some, at her own uncertainty, as though to ease the tension that she was placing on herself. It was only with this last interjection that she turned to her companion, her smoky gaze searching the man's face for reaction-- approval, or disapproval, silent or otherwise. "I'm Ari." she extended her right hand, "Ari Wattson... If I'm that hopeless in finding the meaning of art though, you can forget my name-- I promise I won't be offended too much." The corner of her lips tilted upwards some-- in a subtle hint of a smile, ready to disappear within a moment.