Historia Aetherium: Art Museum

Overview

The ground floor of the Art Museum (Hall of Paintings opened up on Halloween 2012. A big fundraising drive took place to get the museum ready for a halloween party. The second floor (Hall of Sculptures) opened on Halloween 2013. There are rumors of a basement level as well, currently unavailable.

At some point, it seem that the Artist had an exhibition in the museum. (Cross reference Historia Aetherium: The Charnel House

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"Yeah, it's actually kind of a crap time for art on campus. You hear about the museum?"

He pauses for a second and leans forward conspiratorially. "Yeah, a couple weeks ago… they had an exhibit by one of my classmates. Next big thing, they're thinking. Only he shows up with these crazy paintings… blood and hooked chains and cannibals… not that there's anything wrong with that. You know… sometimes you've gotta go over the edge."

"But, well, apparently some folks at the opening thought it was, uh, offensive. Big riot broke out. Two guys got killed by security guards. The inside of the museum got trashed."

"Anyway…" he leans back, looking a little more comfortable with the subject matter. "They've got it all sealed up now for repairs, trying to get new exhibits. Next morning nobody could find him… the painter, that is. Turns out he took a fistful of Eclipse and wandered off. Not that I blame him. It's a good time."

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The story begins with a student heading into the Metroplex University art museum, attending a viewing to get credit for Art Appreciation.

Inside the student isn't confronted with boredom. Instead, he comes face to face with a painting of bony creatures… not-quite-human and dragging screaming passengers from a Metros line.

He ignores it at a prank, probably just another lark like the "poetry" on the Quad… performance art, that's it. He notes the words in his comm, walking into the grand hall.

Where the stairs should be, a massive painting hangs instead. Lurid splashes of blood red and bone white swirl together, forming a caldron and the abattoir of limbs and organs waiting to be fed into it. The details are perfect, realer than real, given the sort of life reserved for the forbidden loves of an age's greatest artists.

His legs carry him outside without his mind even noticing it, classes and assignments forgotten.

Staring at the cooling puddle of vomit before his face, he realizes his comm dropped between his numb fingers back in the great hall. He glances over his shoulder at museum's glass structure, feeling the tug of real art for the first time in his life.

Halloween Hints

A one-time-only encounter on Halloween 2012 gives the following:

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As you make your way through the gallery, you come face-to-face with a man who's made his body a canvas. Either he's been working on that for years or it's one hell of a costume.

"I stole it." He says, as though answering a question… although it's hard to say which one.

"The fire that shows who we really are and the ink that can write on our black souls."

He seems calm, almost bored, like you're talking about the weather. "They could drive me to ground, but they could never find it, hidden in the stars."

He leans in closer and whispers "be careful of the brothers; they're exactly what they seem," then wanders off.

You watch the strange patterns waver on his back as he leaves you to wonder if you were just the subject of an elaborate prank.

Regarding the tattooed man, Kinak says, "There's a lot going on there. You can get about half way through what he's talking about there, and wait for the rest."

First Floor

There are currently five paintings featured on the first floor. The Stories At An Exhibition gives some cryptic hints about the background for the paintings.

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Painting: Parasol lady

Parasols come up a couple places. The subject apparently Emily (former Halloween organizer). The stories form the exhibition books seems to be referencing more the Abandoned Subway than the painting though:

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Every day on his way to work, he saw the woman with the parasol. You couldn't help but notice. After all, who brings a parasol on Metros?

And every day, she was on the train before he set foot on it. And every day she was still there when he left.

One day, he decided to solve the mystery and banish a bit of his own terrible boredom. He sat on the train, waiting to see where she got off, trying to convince himself he was just curious and not a stalker.

But as long as he rode, she never set foot off the train. He rode to the end of the line and back, watching her without seeing the slightest motion.

He lost track of how many times he went around the track, but he eventually stood at the Oldtown stop. For the first time, she moved, imperceptibly shaking her head.

He stared, too surprised to keep from gawking openly. She extended a finger, pointing towards the seat he'd just left, where his body remained… motionless, as though it were just sleeping.

She lowered her parasol, revealing a featureless face. "We can never leave."

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The woman with the parasol walked slowly, making it easy to follow her… almost demanding to be followed. So he did.

She moved through the streets and alleys and parks. She walked even slower as he grew closer.

Finally, he leapt at her, the paused to examine the needle-tipped parasol pricking into his shoulder.

She wept as she flayed the skin from his body, removing his organs and replacing them with stronger substitutes to maintain his suffering. She did not weep for him or the hundred that went before him, but for the world, because there were no heroes, only monsters that hunt their own.

Museum-specific references:

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Almost hidden in a corner, you find a painting of a woman carrying a parasol and looking away from you. It's in the style of painting from back before they had cameras for portraits.

Something about her pose, probably the closeness and her relaxation, makes you feel like something's about to jump out behind you.

Although the painting looks old fashioned, the guidebook identifies its model as one Emily Davers, a recent graduate. Apparently she's "looking towards the future," which doesn't seem like what the painting is trying to show at all. Maybe that's where artistic criticism comes from.

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Moving through the hall, between the shifting paintings, you see a lovely woman walking ahead of you in the same direction.

The fact that she's carrying a parasol doesn't much bother you. Kids on this campus wear and carry far stranger.

No, what bothers you is the blank expanse above her jagged mouth when she turns to face you in the hall. That isn't normal.

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The video moves through the museum, finally stopping to gaze lovingly at a painting showing a woman under a parasol. The cameraperson stands there motionless for what seems like ages, until the hand on the camera grows unsteady and it falls to the ground.

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Painting: Landscape

Exhibition stories:

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Smith knew that his "promotion" to plant manager was anything but. Wesson from down the hall had him declared "unfit" at the last psychiatric review and now he was being sent to the tundra to recover.

It was pointless. After all, if anyone was insane here, it was the local workers. Each of their stories surpassed the last as the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard: ancient hags, a man who sees through the eyes of ravens, the ancient ones who walk on the winds, and the crypts of bygone kings. Who could believe any of this?

When he initially ordered the plant to expand over the kings' gravesites, he hadn't known. After all, he hadn't been paying attention to their madness. But when the local historical society began holding rallies, he couldn't back down. But the government getting involved was the final slap in the face.

A few credit transfers later and the crypts were buried underneath concrete and polysteel foundations. He even kept quiet about the dreams he'd been having long enough to get returned from his "vacation."

But the dreams didn't stop. Each night, the skeletal king chased him through the tundra. And each night he died, bleeding out on the cold ground. He moved from coffee to stronger stimulants, snorting uncut Nova rather than dreaming those terrible dreams.

His next review came back stamped with "unfit" and his manager prepared to send him back to the tundra. But the day he was scheduled to take his shuttle hop, she found him slumped in his office chair, a empty vial of Nova clutched in one hand and an antique sword driven through his chest.

Museum encounters:

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You find yourself before a large and detailed landscape. It feels like you need a microscope or a pair of binoculars to appreciate the full effect.

The guidebook says it's one of many works completed by successful Metroplex University graduates who went on to careers in the arts. It also says the painting was made "in the traditional style" completely without preprinting or computerized assistance.

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You make your way through the hall, strange shapes and twisted forms confronting you like funhouse mirrors. The confusion consumes everything.

Take, for example, the shimmering wall in front of you. It looks like a warped window, sagged with age, peering over a forsaken moor.

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The video moves through the museum, finally stopping to view an immense and detailed landscape. The cameraperson mutters "it's okay, it's okay, it's not real" as their hand shakes more and more. Eventually they slowly back out of the museum… their camera trained on an invisible menace the entire time.

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Painting: Still Life

No especially obvious references from a Halloween storybook. Some museum clues:

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You're stopped short by a still life of a suckling pig with a vase of flowers behind it. It seems almost absurd, which might be the point.

Something about it makes you uncomfortably aware of your own body, like ants crawling up your spine.

The guidebook doesn't shed much light on the matter. It says this painting was "inspired by the last show the museum held before its repairs," but doesn't help you put a finger on why it feels so creepy.

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Passing through the halls, among the shifting vistas, you find a table stained with blood and still covered with bits of gore. A vase of rather pretty flowers sits on the far side of the table, as though daring you to reach for it.

A stream/wave/etc of gore rises up from the table, washing around you and covering you. You manage to escape before you're completely covered.

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The video moves through the museum, finally stopping at a still life. The cameraperson lasts about twenty seconds before they scream and the comm's lens is covered with a bloody smear.

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Painting: Sunset/phoenix

Exhibition story:

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Natalia hadn't meant to buy the brightly colored bird in a gilt cage. Something just snapped when the street vendor said whoever she gave it to would never leave her.

Looking at the bird now, it was obviously the usual superstitious empty promises. But if a red songbird could keep her husband from sleeping with every woman that transferred to his department, it was worth it. And, at the rate he kept being denied promotions, the little bird would even pay for itself.

It's not meant to be, though. He went outside and opened the cage, releasing the bird to compete with the city's pigeons and hawks.

The next morning, though, his assistant brought in his morning 'pick me up,' only to find him fused to his chair, burned in place as though an inferno had torn through the office, touching only him.

She turned to run from the office and report his death when his lips cracked open. She could barely hear his whisper "Natalia."

Museum stuff:

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You stop in front of a sunset painting, expecting to be unimpressed, but it actually has some merit. It really seems to embrace its common concept. It doesn't seem remotely afraid of being compared to a thousand paintings just like it.

Looking at the other paintings around, this one is almost refreshingly childish.

The guidebook says this painting was selected out of over a hundred similar painting bequeathed by a wealthy donor. According to the Dean of Arts, it's the one that best represents the "style and substance" of the collection. || Flames rise up around you, twisting into the form of wings and a great beak. You have only a moment as it swooped in to recognize the flaming bird you unleashed… or spawned.

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You set a fire to the bottom of the shimmering wall. It doesn't seem to harm the wall at all, instead spreading over the moorlands like a rising sun.

As it expands, the flame twists and changes, rising up on fiery wings.

Flames rise up around you, twisting into the form of wings and a great beak. You have only a moment as it swooped in to recognize the flaming bird you unleashed… or spawned.

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The video moves through the museum, finally stopping at a painting of a sunset. The view warps strangely, like ripples of heat. The cameraperson curses explosively and tosses the camera to the ground. Your last view is a figure hurling itself out of the museum and dropping to the ground to roll.

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Painting: Sunset/phoenix

Exhibition story:

Museum stuff

(work in progress)