Number 11 would be Claudia’s finest work. She had slaved on it, working for days at a time; the dedication she put into this would surely attract SOMEONE’s attention, she thought. However, she was ready for whatever press or onlookers there might be. Some carefully-worded answers would redirect any attention from the authorities – and she was ready for some harsh criticism, too. Clauda Blacke had made sure to bone up and reinforce herself and her premises against any naysayers or, who knows, even protestors. In Blacke’s mind, her work wasn’t so much a ‘revolution’ as it was an ’exposition’ – an exploration of the truth. She rehearsed some lines in front of a mirror; her home, a townhouse in the French Quarter. (A very artsy place, she thought – she could probably get away with a little controversy here or there.) “I, Claudia Blacke, am very, very proud of my latest piece. Look at the title, and the content, and do not think of it as a controversial or inflammatory work of art. I don’t seek to incite riots or protest, and I don’t seek to send out a big political message. In fact,” she said, trying to regain her breath – she was far more nervous than she realized- “This is not a message. This is naturality.” “This is, after all, how it should be –a realization of the things that people so often deny, or even worse, admit to, contemplate, desire mentally, but never, ever act on. A realignment of ideals and values that men and women have held since the first proto-indo-europeans banged sticks together until they made a chariot.” This would be tough – that is, if the press, the media, and the attention came. She kind of hoped they would. She wiggled her toes and smiled reflexively at the idea. “Look not at the art’s context or the artist. No, look at the art – the subject matter at hand – and only THEN make your judgment.” She sighed, turned away from the mirror, and walked out of the room. “Ugh,” she said aloud. Claudia was just deathly afraid of crowds, she was now realizing. She needed a captive audience or she’d feel completely uncomfortable. Standing in front of people was a nightmare for her, really… and it had cost her at least one job. She had to get this speech right. She had to really nail it – make a good first impression for when the public would inevitable see her ‘big reveal’. She turned to her artwork and caressed it. “You think maybe I should talk more about me and less about you?” The artwork moaned.
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