Patronage Should Be Given to the Underdogs
"Sorry about earlier. Lately I've had quite a few people come by who are interested in anything but the paintings."
"No need to apologize, Teacher. Though those people...?"
"One of them sent a lackey claiming his master wanted to sponsor me — apparently he's the second son of the lord who governs this city. I turned him down on the spot."
"...Might I ask why you refused?"
"If he'd truly decided to sponsor me after looking at my work, he would have come himself instead of sending an underling. Besides, that lackey didn't seem the least bit interested in art either. Much like that woman over there in the back."
"I can't hear anything."
"Are you deaf? What a shame."
"You claimed you wouldn't sell to anyone who didn't love the paintings, so I'd say I'm a better bet than you, clinging to my young master like this."
"........."
"........."
I really shouldn't say it. I really shouldn't say, you complained about people tearing down their own kind, and you're exactly the same.
"You complained about people tearing down their own kind, and you're exactly the same."
"Young master?"
"What did you just say?"
Ah. I couldn't hold it in.
But what was I supposed to do? I'm Claire's master, yes, but right now I'm also a customer in this atelier. The customer of customers, as it were.
"In any case, why did you suddenly stop me? I was on my way out after speaking with Teacher Rin."
"...That painting."
"Ah, if you mean the easel, that would be because I touched it—"
"How did you know what I was thinking?"
"I could simply see it."
"You could... simply see it?"
"Every other painting in the atelier is accurate — the human proportions, the objects, all of it — but that one alone felt off. It would be easy to dismiss it as a failure or a work from your inexperienced days, except the paint showed traces of not having fully dried yet. Which means it was finished recently — at the very least, it wasn't painted while you were still unskilled."
"Is that all?"
"One small thing more. Unlike the other easels, which show their age, that painting was the only one resting on an easel in perfect condition. A painting like that couldn't possibly be a failure, so I simply concluded there had to be another way to properly view it — and went looking for that way."
"Then how about this one?"
After mulling over my explanation for a moment, Rin showed me a different painting. It depicted a young man holding a blade, tearing his own painting to shreds.
Not a word about how well it was drawn, how masterful it was, how vivid it felt. Instead—
"Is this an illustration from the novel The Sorrow of Martego?"
"You know that book?"
"The scene where the protagonist, a young painter unable to surpass the works of his own past, tears his painting apart with the intent of erasing that past altogether. The emotional description was so striking it stayed with me."
"If you'd really read the book, then I'd have even more to say—"
"But why is the man holding a stiletto rather than a cutlass? As I recall, the setting describes the protagonist as a former navy man who used a cutlass."
"...You really do know it."
"Of course. It's a book I've read many times."
Truthfully, it was a novel I'd ended up rereading out of desperation while the bookshop owner failed to stock anything new. Compared to the other classics, its emotional expression was outstanding enough that I'd genuinely enjoyed it.
"You're right that the protagonist in the novel wielded a cutlass. But if it were me, I would have swung a stiletto."
"Why is that?"
"Because that's what the emotion he felt when tearing up his own painting would have been. Thin, and long, and sharp as a stiletto — the feeling of something stabbing straight through his heart. And yet he had no choice but to do it. A single painting he'd happened to dash off in his unskilled days was judged far more highly than all the others he'd poured countless hours of effort into afterward. He must have felt as though everything he'd worked for had turned to foam on the water."
When paintings came up, she suddenly had a lot to say. So that's the kind of person she is.
"You read books quite deeply, don't you?"
"Maybe it's because we're both painters, but I find myself drawn in. And you seem to love books quite a bit yourself, don't you? More cultured than you look."
"Do I come across that way?"
"To be honest with you... yes, you do?"
Could it be the appearance my disguise magic had given me was the problem? Blond hair was common enough in this world, and since this was a port city full of sun-bronzed sailors, I'd gone with a tanned look as well.
Regardless, the fact that Rin was taking an interest in me was good news.
"You still strike me as someone with little interest in paintings, but apparently I was mistaken. My apologies, once again."
"I've been wondering this for a while now — is that simply your eye for art? It's a little unpleasant, being judged so freely."
"Trade secret. If it upset you, then I apologize again."
Truthfully, I was more startled by how accurate she'd been, but since she'd jumped to the wrong conclusion all on her own, there was no need to say so.
Was it because she was a painter that she trusted her own eye so completely? Even so, it was genuinely unpleasant to have a total stranger pronounce judgment on whether you did or didn't love paintings.
"You said you wanted to buy a painting? As an apology, I'll give you a small discount."
"That I can only be grateful for, Teacher Rin."
Rin's skill was genuinely excellent, so buying a single painting here wouldn't be any loss at all.
But my true goal, as she had seen straight through, was something else entirely.
"This may be a rather rude question, but — is the atelier managing all right?"
"...You know it's rude, and you still ask?"
"The truth is, I arrived by ship, and I don't know when I'll be able to visit this city again. When that day comes, I'd like to buy your paintings once more, Teacher Rin, but..."
"You're saying you doubt my atelier will still be standing by then? Rude, but an understandable concern. All the more so coming from a discerning customer I haven't seen in so long."
A shadow fell over Rin's face as she turned her gaze back to the painting she'd been working on. Hanging there was a piece still unfinished — and beautiful all the same.
It wasn't that she had no work at all, but what little there was would barely buy her food, let alone new painting supplies. It had to be that way — no painter with this level of skill would willingly use such shoddy materials.
"And yet I can hold on. Somehow... somehow, I can hold on. And if you buy a painting today, I'll be able to hold on a little longer."
People naturally assume a painter's work must be expensive. It isn't wrong, exactly — but that holds true only for the paintings of famous masters.
Countless paintings by unknown artists are sold for pitiful sums, no matter how much labor went into them. An unnamed painter who sets a high price simply won't sell, and besides, their next meal is always more urgent than their pride.
And Rin's paintings were no exception.
"This painting is this much."
"Is that truly the price?"
"...That woman over there keeps calling you 'young master,' so I figured you were the son of some wealthy merchant house and quoted it a bit high. If it's a burden, I'll knock it down."
The problem wasn't that it was expensive. It was that it was far, far too cheap. Sometimes when Father explained the paintings hanging in his study, their prices would leave me dumbfounded — because Rin's work looked hardly any different from those famous masters' paintings, yet the prices were heaven and earth apart.
I suspected that even if you combined every painting in this atelier, it wouldn't come to a third of one of those. Father's words came back to me, unbidden.
— I didn't buy the painting. I bought the name of the painter who made it.
And true to those words, whenever a vassal or the lord of another territory entered Father's study, they would praise him upon seeing that painting — or rather, upon hearing the name of the famous master behind it. It was a show of Father's wealth, that he could own something so renowned and so costly.
I wouldn't call it wrong, exactly. But no matter how beautifully Rin painted, Father would never buy her work. Because what Father buys isn't the painting. It's the painter's name.
"Teacher Rin."
"What is it? If it's still too much, I can lower it further—"
"Would you consider accepting my patronage?"
"........."
Half of it had been sincere. The other half, pity.
But the moment the word patronage left my mouth, the softness that had crept into Rin's face twisted.
"Patronage. Patronage, is it. So that's what you are too."
"Teacher Rin?"
"You could just buy my painting, couldn't you? That second son and his lackey, and now you — why do you all insist on making these offers, like you're tossing alms to a beggar? Do I look that pathetic to you?"
"Teacher."
"If you truly pity me, then buy the painting. Pay an honest price for the fruit of my labor!"
"No, I only—"
"...Get out."
"Teacher Rin."
"Get out, now!!"
"...I'll come again another time."
"Don't. Ever. Come back."
BANG!
After the tanned blond who'd been called "young master" and the rude woman had left—
Rin stood quietly before the painting she'd been working on.
"Patronage..."
What a lovely word it was. The very word that starving, penniless artists longed for more than any other.
But to Rin, patronage was nothing more than an irritating word.
Because in the end, none of them had loved her paintings.
That was reality. If she wanted to succeed, there was no helping it. She only had to endure a little longer.
After swallowing every piece of unsolicited meddling that came disguised as advice, this was the path Rin had chosen.
A path where she could no longer paint with the finest supplies at her whim, in a wide, quiet studio, as she once had.
'Even so, now is better than then.'
That was what Rin believed. That was what she had to believe.
Because the moment she admitted this poverty was unbearable and wished she could go back to the past, her conviction would collapse.
Because everything she'd done in walking out of that house would become a mistake. Because she would have to crawl back to that corner of the house, her pride shredded to ribbons.
"Hah..."
As if to drive away the stray thoughts, Rin — who had been painting with almost frantic focus — paused to catch her breath. She wandered idly around the atelier, and then, without warning, her eyes fell on the painting that tanned blond had praised earlier.
She'd worked hard on it to fulfill a commission from a noble who fancied himself a patron of the arts — only to have it rejected on the grounds that something looked off when viewed head-on.
She had poured an entire month into that one painting, and nothing had come back to her for it.
The noble who prided himself on understanding art had failed to see it. The tanned blond had pierced it at a glance. The same went for the painting she'd made after a scene from The Sorrow of Martego.
Someone that fluent in painting, with an eye that sharp — surely he would have been all right.
If only she could get a little — at the very least, just enough money to buy a proper easel—
"...I've truly lost my mind, haven't I, Rin."
Poverty, reality — did they wear down conviction and everything else in the end, after all?
She knew full well that the man she'd chased out so viciously would never return.
Rin clutched her hollow stomach and sat back down at her easel.
It was time to paint.
Creeeak!
"Teacher Rin! Will you not consider accepting my patronage today?"
"...You?"
"I've brought some simple refreshments. Surely you don't intend to refuse this 'patronage' as well?"
Watching Rin's stunned expression, I confirmed it once more, beyond all doubt.
An artist who refused patronage. A poor painter, armed with brilliance and stubbornness and the pride of a true craftsman.
'If an artist like that ultimately accepted my patronage and showed me a full fall-from-grace reaction...'
How exhilarating would that be...!?