Tevun-Krus #95 - Best of 2021

Gestalt in Polychromasia - A MusePunk Story by William J. Jackson

GESTALT IN POLYCHROMASIA

(Musepunk)

By WilliamJJackson

SEMIPRECIOUS DAY

Forja blushed a chagrin cherry as her peers laughed her out. Ridicule greeted the tender young street painter every Myrmidon Day. The Students of the Bricks were an onerous lot, had been since Rufus Nightloss splashed cool prismatics along the rowhouses of Slausson Corner back in what Telestics termed the Reawakening. Those were the days, as some say. But today should have rung a different size of bell. One for her. Forja Day. Victory at last! Alas.

It certainly got off to a rousing start. She arose from a proud, infectious magenta dream, a breakfast of glistening yellow omelet folded over cinnamon toast by a loving mother. Forja tried coffee for the very first time, Stone Easel, and allowed the initial scalding sip to whisk her away to an imaginary desert oasis of chuffed dromedaries and chanting pilgrims. A quick change into the iridescent orange skirt. A tangerine turtleneck sweater under a yellow painter's jacket. Pockets! Stuffed! Paintbrushes!

At a turn, the day raged against her. Verona. Meanda. The usual suspects at the fore of the Clique Dujour. This time they came with a more concentrated form of their social venom. Her father's unemployment. Mother's disability. Your Method is always the SAME! Forja's clear cut focus dithered off a cliff in her deteriorating frontal lobe and down, down so far down did her esteem plummet. She dropped the blessed paints and bolted, only to run out on the streets of Polychromasia, summer green urine leakage under sonic guffaws of geranium faces and pointing, jabbing vermilion digits.

You don't have what it takes!

Neither does your entire family!

Does she even KNOW there are colors outside of orange?

Her swishable skirt flatlined. Skin paled further to a flagellant pink as she stepped away from the invisible blitzkrieg of thorns called harsh words. Jophia laughed loudest, she who lacked Method but mastered keeping flocks of the unimaginative attached to her like a great artisanal magnet.

Not even close! Not even close to done!

So she fled, as any outflanked person would from ridicule most murderous. Fled from her own Method on the wall. True, it was only a third complete, just an eye in five shades of orange looking for a face along the aged brick wall, paired with a thick eyebrow in lines of bold maroon and slender taupe.

Really, the students were focused on breaking Forja's resolve.

But to attack art is to attack artist. The vice is in the versa.

Here in the Bricklands and the entire versicolor world Art equated to existence. Nature is color. People were hues and shades animated people. Simple knowledge. Born from the primordial waters of variegated chemistry, emotionalism. Psycho-evolution. Every plant had it, animal, and person. Life equals mood equals Art. Everything is Art, from day one when They mixed it into the sea. Talking is Art. Hobbies are Art. Building is Art. Heck, what is science except Art as anal-retentive ouroboros?

Why did the mind pulse in rainbow whiplash random thought strands while on the run? Curse a panic!

The Old Country well, they mastered the First Works. When Giuveld realized he could imprint his own shade onto matter, finger as a brush, well, the whole world gushed. You can still go over there and see his works in the finest of detail. The Lady Of The Psychotic Embrace, Four Children In Form, Abigon's Nowhere, and thousands more. The Old Country is living Art, breathing lore. Dear Sun of Blue Opaline, they made the grass in Fontainjeune stark mustard! Now that's dedication.