Art through the Ages

[Apollo Petros]

"Art is the soul's enduring whisper against the din of time."​

Apollo had several invitations piled unusually high on his desk, woefully ignored in favor of far more interesting pieces of literature. However, his maid had chastised him over breakfast and all but dragged him into his office, tying him to his chair until his correspondence was completed. Grumbling, the wizard went through the pile and declined most of the events he was asked to attend; he was a busy man in pursuit of higher magics. He hardly thought that the likes of the late, great Albus Dumbledore or Nicholas Flamel would have had to sit through stuffy dinner parties or attend yet another fundraiser for some comically ironic cause. Apollo was half-tempted to shred them all with a wave of his wand when a rather colorful envelope caught his eye: a new art gallery was showcasing the works of famous early European witches and wizards. The show also featured more modern artists, with a theme that was a retrospective journey through the ages. While not wholly original, it was at least an interesting way to spend the evening—and it would keep his maid, Caille, from boxing his ears for a night.

The gallery was located in a small magical village not far from Obsidian Harbour. It was not much bigger than Brightstone, but then again, most magical villages were small by nature to avoid notice by Muggles; they were often nestled away and fortified with magic that Apollo found fascinating. He was strongly reminded that it was not the purview of the Department of Mysteries to go poking about magic carried out by other departments. It was not that he wanted to alter the layers of protection, but rather to better understand the sympathetic nature of the spells and how, when layered, they created an intricate and delicate net of protection. For the time being, he left well enough alone, though he vowed to corner someone qualified to answer his questions. Tonight was for art, and with that thought in mind, he made his way into the elegant and ornate gallery, filled with other magical patrons and guests. Flutes of champagne and finger foods were served by charming house-elves, who moved about the space with purpose, ensuring all the guests had full glasses and could easily reach out for a morsel to nibble on. Plucking up a glass, he made his way further into the exhibit, nodding at strangers as he passed in search of a less crowded display to admire. A modern piece of art sat off to the side, observed only by a single woman, and so he sidled up beside her, sipping his champagne as he rocked slowly on the balls of his feet.

"So what do you suppose this is meant to be? While I am a lover of art, there are times I am half-convinced these new-age artists are pulling the wool over our eyes. I mean, splattering paint on canvas can be a fine way to blow off steam, but does the fact that it is paint on canvas mean that it is art?" Apollo mused aloud, leaving space for the woman to answer—or to drift away if she chose. It would not be the first time he had chased someone off with his ramblings and musings. When deep in research or focus, he often spoke to the voices inside his own head, that inner voice some individuals had, which the Muggles called neurodivergent. Apollo often theorized that neurodivergence was a consequence of magic and perhaps hinted at possible magical lineage, though there was not yet enough research to support that theory. Still, it was a curious idea—one he was not sure the magical world was ready for just yet.

 

[Beatrice Stafford]

Beatrice recently returned from France, where she had visited her father and also worked on an advertising photo shoot, which was quite successful, but still at that time she wondered what to do next, because she could not work as a model all her life. Of course, she continued to train with an acquaintance to learn about photography, but still that was not enough Beatrice wanted to learn something more, so she had to decide that she would go to her heart's content more.

She found out about the gallery from a friend, so she couldn't miss such an opportunity, because Beatrice had heard about this artist and had seen some of his works, but here was the opportunity to see more. It was only at the last minute that she had to go alone, but it wasn't a big deal, because it was better that she could slowly look at the paintings and enjoy the evening in peace. She arrived in the village, and it was a bit of a shock that there were so many people at the gallery, but as soon as she got inside she was absolutely thrilled to see the paintings that she had the opportunity to see. Beatrice took the glass of champagne that was offered, then went to look at the paintings.

"I can't understand what it should be for now. It's true that new age artists are on their own wave and paint what comes to mind at that moment. It could be that you could try it to understand if it helps you unwind. That's art, yes." Beatrice answered because she wanted to express her thoughts and sometimes it seemed that others were not ready to hear them, because her thoughts on art were different from others. What will happen in this case.

 

[Apollo Petros]

"No, no, no, no. Painting has never been within my wheelhouse," Apollo said with a dismissive wave of his hand, his voice tinged with amused certainty. "It’s a bit messy for my liking. I have no problem spending money on paintings from time to time — I do appreciate the final product. But it is for the best that I let better individuals prevail in this particular skill set."

He eyed the woman beside him momentarily, then turned back to admire the chaotic brilliance of the canvas before them. Swirls of color danced across the surface, bold and unapologetic. The gallery buzzed with conversation, but Apollo seemed perfectly at ease, as if the crowd were merely background noise to his thoughts.

"I am a Ravenclaw alum through and through," he continued, adjusting the cuff of his tailored coat. "So give me a good book, a comfy chair, and a pot of my favorite tea, and I am as cool as a yeti in winter." He grinned, extending a hand with the grace of a true Englishman. "My name is Apollo Petros; it is wonderful to make your acquaintance."

"I think the painting is supposed to be a bird in flight? No, maybe it’s Quetzalcoatl trying to devour something. At least that’s what the smudges look like to me," he said, motioning toward the canvas with a flourish. He paused, then added with a chuckle, "Though I suppose that’s the point of abstract art — it invites interpretation, even if it confounds the senses."

Apollo sipped his champagne, letting the bubbles settle on his tongue. “Still, I admire the boldness. There’s something liberating about painting without needing to explain yourself. Perhaps that’s why I prefer words — they demand clarity. Paintings, on the other hand, revel in mystery.”

 

[Beatrice Stafford]

"Don't you like art?" Beatrice asked, looking away from the painting and looking at the man. "I agree, this one is so chaotically incomprehensible. I wouldn't spend money on this painting either, but I'll see who will buy it."

She looked around at people who might be potential buyers, but then looked back at the man. Beatrice really didn't know who would buy this painting.

"Did you study at Hogwarts in Scotland or New Zealand?" she asked, looking at the man. "I totally agree, a good book is just perfect in the winter. Although I'd give it hot chocolate instead of tea." She smiled too, sipping her champagne. "Nice to meet you Apollo Petros. My name is Beatrice Stafford."

"I don't really understand what it depicts. Although you could say that it's not just one bird, but several birds in flight. No, this time I don't understand what Quetzalcoatl was trying to depict. To be honest, this isn't his best painting."

Beatrice put her glass to her lips, thoughtfully looked at the painting. "Painting has its own mystery and courage, in which they express all their fantasies and visions. Especially like Picasso and Dali."