Mastery of Art
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Overlooking the ruins of Earth, the seven men, each connected to his monolith, spoke in frightful unison.

'What is Art?'

Each of the men had been from one of the old continents; one from Africa, one from Europe, one from Australia, another from Asia, and so forth. Even Antarctica, damned be that nobody had lived there, least of all the old man representing the sheath of ice. It had for preservation, prosperity's sake that at least one of the men had overtaken it.

In the days following the destruction of the planet, the conversations had followed blame, but in the days waning, the conversations had moved to more abstract concepts, from love, to death, to exsistence and pain to of course, art. It had passed the time; eternity and a day had been a long while to wait.

It was on this day, that the men had discovered other beings, away from the spacecraft, away from the monoliths. The other beings, named upon arrival, had all seemingly been artists, each with a different stroke. One had to have been the master of art, certainly.

The man from America had argued that traditionalism and the past had been the center of what art had been. He had argued that the loss of the past had laid way to the end. It was a conversation he had never stopped bringing up. And to that, he had found his artist, the Usieal.


The Usieal had been old beings, born from their own home. An Usieal birth is a rare thing, with stones and pebbles breaking off from the planet, eventually it will be born, it shall learn to walk, learn to speak; great earthquakes and fissures echoing across the planet. The tremors, a laugh, a quake a cry of anguish.

Quakes to the Usieal had always occured at death. Many quakes occur at any given death, for the loved ones of a Usieal have lost of a loved one. But soon, the quakes will stop, and be replaced with small cracks, signs of great applause and approval.

The Usieal had created great art during their death, their bodies to be looken at with cracks. For every Usieal is as ancient as the art it was formed from.

The old man from Europe had been seemingly sunken to his monolith even before the Earth had crumbled. The old man had believed that art was such a thing that was created through thought, not painting and sculpture, whatever that had been. He had found his artist, the Ariamaias.


The Ariamais could never be described, for there is no way of describing such a thing that is unfathomable. Nobody could describe them; they could be a race of fish, a grouping of triangles, a liquid?

All of these things and more, for the Ariamais is everything and everyone. The art that they create is the concept of thinking, leading the mind to think and imagine wonderful things. It would certainly please the Ariamais.

The old man of Asia had been thinking deeply of the matter. What had been art? For him, he had thought that art was what he had renembered, whenever that had been, a long time ago, certainly. He had found his artist, the Xzathias.


The Xzathais had been explainable; small, quiet mechanical beings, constantly tinkering with the memories of those observing them.

The tiny beings with steel hearts and metal bones had carefuly taken a close look at every memory passing through them, a labourous task, but one they took with love.

Memories had been their art. They laboured to present them back their observers, confidently presenting a memory as a poem, as a painting, as a sketch, as a book, music. Whatever the observer had wanted.

The man from Africa was the last to join into the monolith and the council of the old men. He was hesitant for the conversation about art, for his view of art had been his people. Hundreds of millions of people, at least before the monoliths and the men, had been created and had been lost. That had been art to him. His artist had been the Thalieial.


The Thalieal had been formless bodies of gas, looking for a place to call their own. They had looked for empty bodies to enter, expressing their love and gratitude.

Thalieals had not only searched for bodies but art as well. They had thought that every Thalieal had been art, for it had been a combination of millions of things and differing lives.

Every one unique, beautiful and loved.

The Australian man was one who believed that art had to be for art's sake. There had been no meaning behind the art that the Australian had believed in; not everything had to be literal, he had thought. His artist had been the Rea'ath.


The Rea'ath had been collectors. The people had collected art from others, partly as conquest, partly because.

Why did the Rea'ath, fish-men, collect sculptures and paintings when they themselves had no concept of it, aside from stimulating their antenae?

What an odd species.

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