The third attempt was due. It was certainly better not to always deal with groups of two, because theoretically it was easier to integrate into a larger group because the responsibility for the flow of conversation was smaller per person. For this reason, Meia's next target was a group of four, consisting of two men and two women. Of course, it could happen here that she would become the fifth wheel, but the chance of that was not high, because it seemed as if there was only one couple among them. One woman did have her husband hanging on her arm, but the other two were facing each other.

The people were dressed no differently from the rest of the guests. It was just expensive stuff. But the single man standing still stood out. He wore a wine-red suit with a black shirt and fine leather gloves. He was certainly the only person who still wore gloves in these temperatures. He also had a sort of gentleman's braid. Such a hairstyle would only be dared by a man who could afford to be looked at askance. All in all, he seems more important than the other three. The conversation they were having was quite dynamic, but whenever he said something, the others would get quiet and all hang on his every word until he was done. Listening was a feat that even Meia could easily accomplish. That was another reason why this group was her choice. Nevertheless, she still wanted to remain inconspicuous for the time being. Only every now and then did she take a small step closer while eating her bread.

"... depiction of depression."

"That's right." The man in red nodded to the other man. "I thank you, but I did not do it for the praise. A craftsman may look for commissions, but an artist looks for inspiration." Aside, he looked thoughtfully down at his glove, then higher at the glass, and from then on mainly into the wine as he slowly swirled the glass. "Jean vividly described his vision to me, awakening an urge in me to bring it into reality." He paused deliberately, watching the wine echo his hand gesture. "As for the hours of work, the amount is not unusual. When you create art, time does not matter." The wine quietened and his gaze went more to the people again. "If you should ever come across a work in which one part is inferior to the rest of the work, it is because his creator does not love it. He merely accepted a commission and carried it out as far as it was necessary. But he felt nothing in the process. It was an emotionless act for payment with sad results." He took the time to take a sip while the rest waited in silence. "A work without love is not art. It is a work. You could say art is a wanted child. Even as it is conceived, it is loved and because it is loved, it is cared for until it is perfect."

At this point, his monologue was presumably over. The man was undoubtedly brave. Staging so many pauses was risky, because there was a danger that someone else would take the word or that people would get bored. But by his charisma alone he held everyone's attention and forced everyone to shut up.

~Who is this man? An artist?~ He had also mentioned Mr Monet again.

Meia bit from her bread and continued to watch the conversation.

A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

"Yes, until it's perfect, or depraved, like with some of our colleagues," the other man joked.

"Haha, Those are not my words."

"I understand the other animals, but what do the birds mean?" the woman, who was attached to her husband, asked the artist curiously.

The woman did not notice, but her husband rolled his eyes and finished this expression with an apologetic look at the artist.

The artist only smiled in response.

"The fact that you ask that question tells me that you don't understand the image at all."

"Oh, Remi~" she whined, nudging him playfull against his chest without letting go of her husband. "It's totally abstract though. Just tell me."

"There are always lots of birds in the grass in the spring and then they all fly away." he replied to her and both men started laughing.

"It would be funnier if you let me in on it as well."

"Honey, he's not going to tell you. Let it go."

"But why not? - Remi, that's not nice of you."

"It is not possible. If I reveal that one interpretation is correct, then I also declare that all the others are wrong. But perhaps Mr Monet was thinking of something else that I myself do not know about. Or perhaps I myself subconsciously thought of something that strayed into the work. I cannot deny that. One viewer may feel something completely different in front of the work than another. Who am I to say that one person's feelings are wrong and another's are right? In the end, it is up to each person. If you do not have your own opinion, that is also legitimate. But if you want to have your own opinion, then you should form one yourself and not ask for mine or your husband's in order to look smarter in front of others. An opinion of your own that you can justify is always more valuable than a clever opinion that you have copied. People do not want to listen to someone who speaks clever words. People want to listen to someone who speaks for himself. Please take that to heart."

~Wow...~ Meia was impressed. The artist had eloquently rebuked the woman.

Alas, it was to no avail. Judging by the glint in her eyes, she was about to applaud her lecture and again she nudged him teasingly.

"All right. You've convinced me. I'll look at the image again later and find out for myself what it's about."

Meia did not believe that she would look at the image again. She would probably just ask her husband later and then the subject would be over for her. Such a push on the shoulder had also been done by Mrs Monet to the one man at the carriage. The difference was that from Mrs Monet it had seemed a bit like a warning. From this woman, however, it seemed very ingratiating. Meia felt sorry for her husband. It seemed as if he was just the fallback model.

In the meantime, Meia had understood that this artist was certainly the one who had made the carved door. The text mentioned only one bird, but on the door there were a lot of birds hidden in the grass of spring. If Meia was honest, she had no idea what they were for either and she did not think she could figure it out.

In the meantime, Meia had also noticed the lone woman in the group. She had been standing off to the side the whole time. Meia would guess she was about 20 years old. She clutched a picture frame, barely the size of a newspaper, to her chest. So far she had been silent, but it seemed she had wanted to say something for quite some time. Meia would see like that, but she had also seen her raise her hand briefly just now and then break it off again halfway through. Probably because she had not dared? Meia could understand. At least the artist talked as if he had already prescribed things at home. Interrupting him would certainly take some courage.

"Master?" the woman finally dared to speak up. "Can you still look at my work?"

.../ End Part