Link to article: Pax Anartistica.
info:start
info:end
:scp-wiki:component:license-box-end
[[include info:start]] **Author:** [[*user C0S0]] **Original work:** [http://fondazionescp.wikidot.com/pax-anartistica Pax Anartistica] **Translator:** [[*user Ichne-Bebop]] [[include info:end]] The history of the [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/hub-madao MADAO Academy] in the Americas is fraught with instances of conflict and violence. First and foremost among their nemeses stood the anartists' collective known by the slogan [https://scp-wiki.wikidot.com/are-we-cool-yet-hub "Are We Cool Yet?"]. Pilfering, sabotage, and even downright terror attacks were a constant presence in the everyday's life of the anartists in the New World for more than a century. The conflict was deemed to be unending, but, unexpectedly, some sort of appeasement came: since the Thirties, the two organizations found themselves stuck into a stalemate and gradually ceased to fight each other; the ongoing western economies' crisis -- as well as the isolation of the Academy's main campus in Florence, struggling under the fascist government -- certainly played a major role in pushing the actors towards an armistice. The turning of events engendered a newfound optimism within the anartists' community: the hopes for a peace that was both enduring and formally agreed upon were palpable. Hundreds of demonstrators submitted a proposition to the heads of the organizations: they used to call the treaty //Pax Anartistica//, a name bound to linger in the nostalgic memories of this peaceful interlude. The proposal was accepted, and finally the peace between MADAO and AWCY? was achieved; such a notion, until a mere few decades earlier, would have been deemed nothing short of absurd to even contemplate. A concept of an art feat to celebrate such a milestone was born amidst the jubilations, to be crafted by the hands of two revered sculptors, hailing from both organizations: Johnathan McKay from AWCY?, a respected member of the American anartist scene and a renowned proponent of diverse artistic currents; and Abraham Lamberti, the offspring of the current American Custodian, one of the Academy's most acclaimed art critics and consummate sculptor. The artwork was set to be unveiled to the public on January 1st, 1949, [https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Lorenzo_de%27_Medici a symbolic date] carefully chosen by the Academy. ---- "Again." "W-what?" "It definitely shall be done again from the beginning. Surely we should not allow ourselves to present such a… thingy for the grand exposition" Bathed in the last fading rays of daylight pouring through the windows, //The Peace// remained motionless at the center of the room, under the discerning gaze of the two men who had brought it into existence. All things considered, Lamberti felt obvious that, of the two, he would have probably been the first one to step back and relent. From the very beginning, his peculiar collaborator with his practical, eccentric approach had bewildered, if not outright disgusted him. //"Clearly nipped in the bud."// He thought, //"What kind of artist would have chosen such a crass substance as the foundation for their sculpture?"// But he had to swallow the bitter pill. The great artists of the past made do with what they could find, and now he had to make do with... a member of AWCY? What a dreadful concept it was. Anyone gifted with even the most remote hint of rationality would have abhorred such a submission. "There's a deadline tomorrow. We agreed on the date chosen by the Academy, and now you don't want to abide by it?" the other retorted, gesturing towards the artwork. Yes, he was right; but that didn't negate the fact that the statue in its current state was sorely unsightly. But he just couldn't simply comply with him once again; he had already done so one too many times. "You know the privileges of my position" Lamberti replied, "If I wanted, I could convince the Academy to postpone the celebration by a month, or even a year. The date is plainly symbolic, and I'd bet they only chose it because of my father's taste for these kinds of coincidences." "Why inflict him with such sorrow, then?" Lamberti fell silent for a moment. McKay must have gotten a glimpse of his underlying intentions, and now he had to carefully weigh his words to address their issue, just in the most diplomatic way possible. Lamberti took a couple steps back to survey the ultimate result of thirty-six weeks of arduous labor, internalized critiques, and regretful compromises. "Do tell me, Johnathan, and sincerely. Are you happy with //The Peace//?" "Of c-course I-" "Then, look at it, please. Just stare at it for ten seconds straight, and do not avert your gaze." McKay abruptly turned around, almost feeling offended by the harmless challenge. "What are you insinuating?" "Please, Johnathan. It's horrible, even for //your// standard." McKay's mood switched from suspicious to upset in a split second. Once again, he thought, those snobbish individuals with their Fine Arts degrees from the Academy were posing themselves as the sole arbiters of supreme and absolute beauty. He wasn't satisfied with the final result either, but to concede to Lamberti? Never. //"Here we are."// Lamberti thought //"I got carried away."// He got close to the statue again. "Let me explain myself. I'm a man of art. My work is nothing but meant to be contemplated by others in a gallery, sometimes to be sold to connoisseurs, and that's pretty all the story going on with it. There's no place in my art for things like a double end, a hidden agenda or any kind of pedestrian trickery. At the Academy, I stick by my own corner of belonging; namely, the Art." "Alright, thank you for this nice rigmarole, but where are you trying to get to?" "I mean, frankly, speaking as a scholar and as an artist, this is not Art. I'm not saying this just because of its appearance, or rather, not //only// because of that, but also because of what lies behind; or, more precisely, //does not lie.// I can stare at this statue for literal hours and still I won't feel anything. I can't help myself to notice anything specific that would make me believe that any particular person has created such a thing whilst exercising creative thought. If it weren't so large, it could pass for a pebble smoothed by water, like some fortuitous product of natural forces. I simply can't find anything artistic here." A sepulchral silence fell between the two, somehow softly cocooned by the faint sound of far, passing cars. "But, now," Lamberti continued, "I'm asking you, Johnathan. Are you able to see -- what do you call that? -- some anartistic sense into it? "Yes, I do" "No, you don't, you're ly-" "That's enough! Haven't you said this isn't your area of expertise? What can you possibly know?" McKay spat angrily, feeling wasted for all the presumptions from the "colleague". "I'm… really sorry, Johnathan, I only wanted… how can I say, you just don't look very satisfied to me." "You're wrong. I think it is… adequate. I see no reason here for troubling ourselves any further." McKay tried to end the conversation this way, and almost thought he was successful, as Lamberti was taking his time to follow up. "You know, before getting involved in this project, I took my time to learn about your works." "That’s all I could do, I did the same." McKay replied, unashamedly lying. "I think I noticed something recurring in your production. All your works seem to be… alive, to some degree, regardless of medium or composition. Like they were imbued with a soul of their own." "Yes, exactly; we can say it's kind of my trademark, if you will." "Yeah, I heard it's something you call… //sentiment,// am I right?" "Well, in some way, it is; between us, at the same time it's just a rhetorical instrument I use to discuss my work with other anartists. I would never trust anyone to reveal my secrets." "I see, I see! So, I suspect you don't want to tell me what exactly is the deal with… this?" "In fact, yes. Let's say that's akin to some icing over a complete piece I'm really satisfied wi-" "Right, so I was thinking! Now please, tell me: why //The Peace// is right there, standing still, just like any mundane statue?" And finally, he had hit the spot. Painfully so. //"We are done here."// Lamberti said to himself //"Now I can finally get this one off me and fix this mess."// "That's because I haven't added my finishing touch yet. I haven't performed the procedure yet." That was an answer no one had anticipated, probably not even McKay. The bluff was blatant, but Lamberti still wanted to see how far McKay would have pushed himself to win the argument. "Well then, what are we waiting for?" "Look, I can't just do it with you here. I hold my professional confidentiality too high, and anyway, I still don't trust you." "Absolutely! This won't be a problem at all!" Lamberti pointed to a door. "There's a small vestibule between this makeshift laboratory and the streets of Philadelphia. I can easily move there until you're done. I've heard you have always managed to complete your job within a few hours, so I'm positive it shouldn't take you any longer." He continued, now in a mocking tone. Defeated in the very spirit, McKay reluctantly accepted Lamberti's demand and began to gaze at the statue, as soon as the latter closed the door behind him. What now? McKay realized he had willingly walked right into that snare. He studied the statue again. No, there was definitely something wrong with it. He knew Lamberti was right; but to open that door and admit his defeat? Never, he would have rather died. McKay cracked his fingers and was about to place his palm on the head of //The Peace//, only to retract his arm almost at once. He had never done it reluctantly before. He was unsure of what could have happened. At last, his "sentiment technique" wasn't anything but nonsense to mislead his rivals, and it served him good during his past anartistic endeavors. Actually, that wasn't a technique at all, but instead some kind of "gift" he had possessed since he was young. He had never fully explored it; he started using it as a tool in his repertoire only recently. Exactly, if the great artists of the past made the most out of a talent they had been gifted with, why shouldn't he have done the same, even if it carried some risk of being blacklisted by some unknown organization? But at the present time, McKay felt afraid. The results had always been sound, yes, but they also had never been consistent, and they came out slightly different from each other every time. He hypothesized that his state of mind could have influenced his ability, but all in all it had always been nothing more than his instinct, a gut feeling. He was about to lose his temper, and to entitle his present feeling as "calm" would have been a shameless fabrication; if he were right in his suppositions, again, who would've known what was going to happen next? He stared at the door again. Lamberti was on the other side, most likely giggling, already enjoying McKay's impending humiliation. Nine months. For nine long months he had endured, receiving dirty looks and veiled comments. He had no intention to accept one last mortification. Eyes fixed on the only one way out, he finally placed his hand on the sculpture. Lamberti heard a sharp crack coming from the other side of the door, like something had loudly snapped. What had that clumsy degenerate done? Did he manage to break something while doing his "forte"? "Hey Jonhathan, nothing broken, I hope?" he asked sarcastically. No one answered. It was perfectly silent, except for a feeble scraping sound, as if something heavy was slowly dragging across the floor. "McKay?" he continued, knocking. Still no response. He decided to open the door slightly. McKay was lying on the ground, with //The Peace// standing in one piece next to him, facing him. Lamberti couldn't believe what he was seeing. The statue... for some reason, he couldn't take his eyes off it. Some sort of aspecific, primal fear now engulfed him, an inexplicable instinct discouraging him to look away. He reached and leaned down towards McKay, finally managing to ignore their creation. No heartbeat. Dead. Lamberti didn't even have the time to wonder what could have caused the anartist's demise. Before he could react, he felt two cold, raw-edged cement limbs wrapping around his neck. //Crunch.// [[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box |author=C0S0, translated by Ichne-Bebop]] [[include :scp-wiki:component:license-box-end]]