Princesses Celestia and Luna stood side by side at one end of the museum gallery, gazing silently at the painting hanging on the wall. Behind them, chaos reigned.
Filling much of the rest of the room was the crowd of gawkers, all craning their necks for a glimpse of the diarchs. That was normal; there were few places where the two could travel together without attracting a large retinue of curious observers. Then, there were the paparazzi, frantically snapping pictures. That was also common, though usually they didn’t snap with quite such unrelenting intensity. And between them and their targets were a half-dozen royal guards arrayed in a semicircle, doing their part to make sure the picture-ponies stayed a respectful distance away, and didn’t try to grab any mane or tail clippings. This, too, was pretty usual.
What was unusual—what had gawkers and paparazzi alike clamoring to see more with uncharacteristic fervor, and which had even the guards themselves turning their heads in hopes of catching a glimpse of what was to come next—was the subject matter of the painting which the princesses were now considering: a wide-eyed Celestia, plopped on her rump, on an unmistakably lunar landscape.
Would the princesses laugh? Would they be angry? Would they have the same reaction to the painting, or would they each take it differently? Enquiring minds wished to know.
There was one other pony, yet unmentioned, on the scene. That pony was the artist herself, who was doing very little to contribute to the overall fuss, insofar as she had fainted as soon as the princesses came into the gallery. And so she lay ignored beside her work, as the crowd surged and ebbed, the camera bulbs flashed, the guards stood their vigil, and the princesses kept up their contemplation.
It was Luna who spoke first.
“It wasn’t like that at all, you know.”
Celestia smiled. “Is that so?”
“Indeed! To begin with, I wasn’t on the moon, I was magically contained within the moon, my spiritual essence bound to its very fabric. And there was a distinct sense of dissociation which made the whole episode pass as if in a timeless instant.” She put a hoof to her chin in contemplation. “Though that may have been more the result of the Nightmare’s possession than of the magical bindings themselves. Regardless, we both know that this—” she pointed to the painting, “—is completely inaccurate. And so should anypony who gave the matter two seconds’ thought.”
“Oh, to be sure.”
Luna frowned, though her expression was more quizzical than annoyed. “I know that tone of voice. You don’t think I’m right?”
“Of course you are, dear sister. But I also think you’re missing the forest for the trees, as it were. You mustn’t take art so literally.”
“Is this not literally a depiction of you being sent to the moon?” She snorted. “This…” she bent down to examine the signature in the corner of the painting and, finding none, turned her attention instead to the name badge on the comatose pony lying before her. “...'Lawn Chair' might not be as well acquainted with the celestial bodies as you or I, but surely she must have realized how silly plopping a pony onto its surface would be.”
“Now, that I’m afraid I don’t agree with.” Celestia shook her head.
“Truly? I was certain that astronomy had progressed to the point where everypony knew that there is no air on—”
“No, Luna. I mean, I don’t agree that this is 'literally' supposed to show me being sent to the moon. It’s commentary, don’t you see?”
Luna cocked her head, as if seeing the painting slightly askew would reveal some new, hidden depth. “Commentary on what, pray tell?”
“Well, what historical event does this picture evoke by way of reversal? Nightmare Moon being banished to the moon. For a thousand years, that’s been equinity’s go-to expression of my power: Celestia banishing Nightmare Moon.”
“An event which everypony for hundreds of years considered purely mythological? Not much of an expression of power, is it?”
“On the contrary, myth is far more powerful than history. History, as any bored foal at lecture will be happy to tell you, is just ‘stuff that happened.’ Myth, on the other hand, speaks to something fundamental inside of us.” Celestia winked. “Which do you remember better, after all: one of the histories you read after your banishment, or your first Nightmare Night in Ponyville?”
After a moment, Luna grunted. “I’m not at all certain that’s a fair comparison, but Nightmare Night, of course.”
“Of course. And so it was with Nightmare Nights for hundreds of years before your return, for thousands of thousands of other ponies. Nightmare Night, and the myth behind it, may not have been seen as ‘real’ by those generations, but the emotional core of it resonated far more strongly than the words in a textbook ever could. As one of my students once said, ‘A history can be important, but a story matters.’” With a sidelong glance at Luna, she tittered, “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell my most recent student that I said that, by the by.”
Luna mumbled something vaguely affirmative, then gestured at the still-unconscious artist. “So. My banishment means you are strong, and her painting flips that narrative. Is that it?”
“That’s the start of it. Now mind you, I was and am frequently used as a stand-in for Equestria at large in our ponies’ art.”
“Yes, and?”
“Well, what did your recent return do to the myth of my power, particularly regarding the Nightmare Moon tale?”
Luna shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose it made you seem more like a manipulator than a spell-slinger? There was quite a bit of fiddling about to fulfil prophecies on your part, as I understand it.”
“That’s true, as far as it goes. But importantly, it called into question the very fact of my power itself. And...” Celestia paused, and her cheeks turned red, but after a moment she continued. “Well, between Chrysalis, Discord, Tirek, and the rest, there have been quite a few foes in the past several years whose defeat I’ve had to leave in more capable—dare I say, more powerful—hooves.”
“So, you think the ponies no longer see you as powerful?” Luna smirked. “This sounds suspiciously like self-effacement. But not from my beloved elder sister, surely?”
Celestia elbowed her gently. “Yes, yes, very funny. But in all seriousness,” she continued, returning her attention to the painting, “for many centuries, ponies believed one thing about me. Recently, that belief has been challenged. And this painting is that contradiction given form. Look at my expression! Even a decade ago, I’d have been serene in the face of any challenge, or else filled with self-assured fury. In either case, my expression would’ve made clear that I was in absolute command of the situation. Here, I look positively dumbfounded.”
“I do like the way your eye is arched,” Luna conceded. “It really does capture that sense of 'I am completely incapable of processing how poorly that went.'”
“I like the choice to put me on my haunches, myself,” added Celestia. “Sitting is a much weaker position than standing. It drives home that I’m completely clueless, and not about to launch into some grand plan or another.”
“If the artist wanted to show you weak, why aren’t you lying down?”
“Ah, that’s the subtle beauty of it!” Celestia beamed. “If I were lying down, especially if I seemed to be harmed or unconscious, or even dazed, that would only show how contemporary ponies don’t see me as all-powerful.” She shook her head. “That would be a reactionary work, and merely a reflection of the public temperature.”
“You say that like it’s a bad thing. Why shouldn’t an artist try to capture the zeitgeist of the moment?”
“Well, I suppose there’s nothing wrong with that. But I’m of the opinion that great art doesn’t just reflect sentiment, but creates it. This picture challenges both the traditional assumption of my strength, and the newer one of my long-range planning and strategic brilliance.”
Luna hmm’d noncommittally. “So, you’re saying that this picture is calling you a weakling and an idiot.”
Celestia laughed. “Well, that might be overstating it. But it’s a declaration that I’m neither as powerful as ponies used to believe, nor as wise as many today seem to think I am.”
“That doesn’t seem like particularly daring commentary.”
“Don’t forget the other part of it: that I’m a traditional stand-in for Equestria as a whole. Art about me isn’t just about me, it’s about the whole nation. Does that seem a little more daring to you?”
“Perhaps.” Luna pursed her lips. “So the artist is saying that Equestria isn’t all it’s held up to be. That still seems a bit banal, to be frank.”
“Think of how that national commentary applies to an individual pony, though,” Celestia pressed. “For all our many fine qualities, we Equestrians do tend to be more than a bit full of ourselves as a nation. All our maps show Canterlot as their center, we expect other races and countries to learn our tongue as a lingua franca, even when it’s we who are visiting their homelands… there’s a distinct undercurrent of ethnocentrism running throughout our country. This picture attacks the basis for that nationalism, and by doing so, calls on ponies—” she paused a moment, eyes wandering upward in thought, before continuing, “—and non-pony Equestrians too, I suppose, though this picture doesn’t really delve into race relations—to reconsider their implicit bias in favor of Equestrian norms, and to adopt a more open and receptive attitude towards the rest of the world!”
“That’s a lovely sentiment,” Luna acknowledged. “None of it answers my original complaint, though.”
Celestia blinked. “You mean… that it isn’t realistic? That banishment to the moon doesn’t actually transport one’s physical body to the surface? But the whole painting centers around my nonplussedness. How would you show that without giving me a physical body?”
“If we need your physical body so badly, we should show you somewhere other than on the moon. Tartarus, for example. Why not paint you trapped down in the Prison Eternal, in that exact same pose?”
Now it was Celestia’s turn to hmm. “I take your point, but I think the Nightmare Moon connection is a stronger one than anything tying me to Tartarus. Those are foes who remain foes, after all, whereas you are once more yourself.” She smiled at her sister. “To my continuing delight, I might add.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere,” Luna replied, flipping her mane in mock indignation. “The high-stakes world of art criticism is above your petty attempts to butter us up.” But then she leaned into Celestia, and murmured, “I love you too, big sister.”
Celestia returned the lean, closing her eyes. “And that’s just it,” she continued after a moment. “By evoking Nightmare Moon, it implies that a wiser ruler could have avoided those thousand years of banishment altogether. That’s an extra layer that you don’t get with Tartarus; nopony thinks that Tirek would be friends with a smarter princess, after all.”
“Adding yet another layer of the same commentary? That seems like overkill.”
“You were the one who was arguing for the most literal interpretation possible just a moment ago. Perhaps it was underkill.”
Luna let that hang for a moment. “For the record, I don’t think you’re what this painting allegedly says you are.”
Celestia tutted. “That’s kind of you to say, but if you realized how far overboard some ponies go in their veneration, you wouldn’t think so. When the standard you’re held to is ‘unstoppable and infallible,’ it’s not much of an insult to suggest that the bar’s been set a bit high.”
“I meant about a smarter princess being able to stop Nightmare Moon.” Luna turned her head, and looked Celestia in the eye. “If the painting says that, then it’s wrong.”
“That’s… kind of you to say.” Celestia did not meet her sister’s gaze.
“It’s true.” Luna took her sister by the chin, and brought them eye-to-eye. “Say it.”
Celestia swallowed. “It… it’s true?”
“There we go.” Luna released her. “It does no good to dwell on the past. Otherwise, you eventually create a darkness-themed manifestation of your own self-doubt and loathing which tries to take over the world.” She frowned. “Twice.”
“...Twice?”
“Did I never tell you about the tantabus? Well, ask me about it over dinner. It’s a long story, but your favorite purple student and her friends are the stars.”
Celestia smiled. “Well, that at least doesn’t surprise me.”
They returned their attention to the painting, and it was again Luna who broke the lull in the conversation after a few moments. “Is it possible we’re over-analyzing this?”
“How do you mean?”
“Well, the more I look at this piece, the more signs I begin to see of a distinctly amateur hoof.” She gestured toward the star-studded blackness which filled the upper half of the picture. “Leave aside the whole ‘pony sitting on the surface of the moon’ as artistic license, if you must, but look at this background! There’s something there which I can only assume is meant to be the Milky Way, but the placement of the stars beyond that, even within that, seems totally random. I sincerely doubt more than a few minutes were spent contemplating the night sky for purposes of this painting, if even that.”
“Well, as you just said, it’s background. You can’t expect an artist to devote equal attention to those parts of the painting which exist primarily to frame the more important elements.”
“Like you?”
“Oh, hush.” Both of them giggled. “And anyway,” Celestia continued, “We both know you’re far more sensitive to star placement than the average pony.”
“It comes with the job.” Luna buffed her hoof on her chest.
“Yes, but it means you can hardly speak impartially about whether the starfield is sufficiently accurate for the average viewer.”
“Fine, but what about the moon’s surface itself? It’s clearly out of proportion to you. What about the lighting? Your shadow implies at least two different light sources. And we see the same lack of precision in your body. Your snout is so short you could almost be mistaken for a cat, and your chin is more square than any pony’s I’ve ever seen, stallions included!”
“I think that’s a stylistic choice. It’s clearly meant to be somewhat caricature-ish, with simple, bold lines and a limited color palette.”
“That doesn’t excuse bad anatomy,” Luna persisted. “Unless you want to tell me how giving you a short snout is some sort of complex allegory for your views on free school lunches for needy foals?”
“In favor, for the record. And no, but that doesn’t mean it isn’t an artistic decision. Not everything about a piece of art needs to be exactly photo-accurate.”
“Of course not, but it should be inaccurate for a reason. Otherwise, you’re just excusing bad drawing.”
“Why should something that’s not perfectly correct to the real world be ‘bad drawing’ by definition? Why can’t it be drawn that way on purpose?”
Luna frowned. “Now you’re just being obtuse. I said it can be that way on purpose—but that implies that it has a purpose. I ask you again: what was the 'purpose' in giving you the snout of a colt whose face has just been struck by a mallet?”
Celestia returned to the painting, pursing her lips. “I don’t know,” she eventually admitted.
“So there you have it. Most likely we’re just overthinking a poorly-drawn, poorly-thought-out piece of ephemeralia.”
Celestia shook her head vigorously. “No, there are too many strong, provocative choices in this picture for me to believe that these elements aren’t deliberate. I may not know what the painter intended with my nose, but I have complete confidence that there is some intention there.”
Luna gestured to the ground, where the artist had begun to stir. “Well, she seems to be coming around. Let’s just ask her, shall we?”
*****
Lawn Chair tried to open her eyes, then quickly shut them again. It was far too bright. She tried to remember where she was; surely not at home, it wasn’t so cold at home. Tile. She was lying on tile, that’s why it was cold.
She huddled herself into a ball, groaning as she tried to crack open her eyes. There was so much noise, but it was all a blur. What was going on? Was she in a hospital? That would explain the flashing lights, maybe.
Bits and pieces came rushing back to her, faster than she could process. She was at the gallery, that was right. For the grand opening of the exhibit. She was showing her work off, and then…
The noises were becoming more distinct. It didn’t sound like doctors. It sounded like a hundred different simultaneous conversations, just far enough away that she couldn’t make them out. That’s right, all those ponies had come in with—
“The princesses!” she tried to cry, but it came out as a groan. Squinting, she forced herself to her hooves. The princesses had come in, Celestia and Luna, and she’d been standing right in front of her painting, and they had both looked right at her, and…
Well, and then she woke up lying on the tile.
Head still swimming, she forced her eyes fully open. Immediately, a thousand flashbulbs assaulted her, a blinding strobe though which only one thing was visible: the massive, dark blue-form of Princess Luna looming over her.
“WHY DID YOU GIVE MY SISTER THE FACE OF A PUG-NOSED STALLION?” she thundered.
Lawn Chair had just enough time to stammer, “Ah… D-D-Death of th-the Artist?” before she fainted again.
