Booker follows Joe around the space, keeping a polite distance but maintaining his pace, taking in the pieces around them as they pass by. Nearly all of the artworks have been painstakingly replicated into a consumable digital form, but there's still a strange emptiness to it all. Maybe it's because of his own love of tactile objects, and his limited ability to understand 'art' through physical repilcation, but the real lack of an artist's handiwork renders these pieces ... without soul. They're like prints one buys at the gift shop. Things he can copy for a price.
And maybe that's the thing; he isn't sure. For years he'd worked as a forger, had a real knack for it; many things had been copied by his hand and he would argue that he hadn't exactly put any kind of artistry into it even though there had been plenty of effort and sweat.
So when they come to a statue and Joe pauses before it, asks him a question — how do you feel? — Booker doesn't really know how to respond other than: 'well, it's covered in gold', which makes him hopeless at this. But he wants to try. He wants to see the way Joe sees, to understand. He tries to look past the object itself, tries to find meaning in the image. Context, Joe had said. ]
It's — suffocating. Covered in all that opulence. [ The mosaic tile, the patterning of the woman's dress, most of her body obscured by gold leaf. ] But freeing somehow, too. Like one could disappear into it.
[ Is there a right or wrong answer? He isn't sure. ]
no subject
Booker follows Joe around the space, keeping a polite distance but maintaining his pace, taking in the pieces around them as they pass by. Nearly all of the artworks have been painstakingly replicated into a consumable digital form, but there's still a strange emptiness to it all. Maybe it's because of his own love of tactile objects, and his limited ability to understand 'art' through physical repilcation, but the real lack of an artist's handiwork renders these pieces ... without soul. They're like prints one buys at the gift shop. Things he can copy for a price.
And maybe that's the thing; he isn't sure. For years he'd worked as a forger, had a real knack for it; many things had been copied by his hand and he would argue that he hadn't exactly put any kind of artistry into it even though there had been plenty of effort and sweat.
So when they come to a statue and Joe pauses before it, asks him a question — how do you feel? — Booker doesn't really know how to respond other than: 'well, it's covered in gold', which makes him hopeless at this. But he wants to try. He wants to see the way Joe sees, to understand. He tries to look past the object itself, tries to find meaning in the image. Context, Joe had said. ]
It's — suffocating. Covered in all that opulence. [ The mosaic tile, the patterning of the woman's dress, most of her body obscured by gold leaf. ] But freeing somehow, too. Like one could disappear into it.
[ Is there a right or wrong answer? He isn't sure. ]