It was something like blue, a little bit like yellow, and yet totally unlike green. She’d never seen anything like it in her entire life.
The unknown student’s painting was, in all other respects, averagely amateur. It was as though the artist had looked into a pond through foggy lenses and painted the resulting headache their poor prescription had gifted them. There was certainly a treeline, and that was how Ms. Harshwhinny was able to rationalize the whole “decidedly not green” part, as well as venture a guess at the whole “pond” business, but the rest? Compositionally, it was a mess. Was that supposed to be a fish? It wasn’t dull so much as… as…
She couldn’t remember, because her eyes kept being drawn back to the spot towards the bottom of the canvas. It was on the tip of her tongue, really, and she felt as though she could name it if she really, really tried. Ms. Harshwhinny was well-known for her discerning eye, and could tell you in no uncertain terms whether or not a color was chartreuse, or simply a vivid pear with delusions of grandeur, but this?
This… oh, she could almost taste the name of it.
Her clipboard fell to the floor. She didn’t notice. She almost had it…
“I say, what is that strange hue they’ve splashed upon there?”
Jet Set didn’t need to be told that he was an expert in everything he saw, for he simply was, and everypony who’d answered his questions were simply there to confirm what he already knew. It was a way of life, a mindset that only the most elite of ponies could afford to have. Quite literally, of course; out of the corner of his eye he’d caught Upper Crust paying off the ponies whose protests became too disruptive to ignore.
So it was peculiar, this time, that his question wasn’t immediately met with an answer he’d already known. It threw something entirely unseemly into the rhythm with which he lived his life, and it was enough of a shock to force him, him, to look around.
Upper Crust was nowhere to be seen, and neither was her entourage. Strange, as the gaggle of ponies that hung onto their every words were rarely more than a polished hoofstep behind. Had she gone on ahead? Something about the silence bothered him. It reminded him of something uncomfortable, and for a moment, an uncanny sense of perspective threatened to dawn on him. Was he… alone?
No matter. It would sort itself out. A problem for lesser ponies. He turned back to stare into the unnatural color on the painting. It reminded him of the run-off along the streets of the Arts district of Manehattan; colorful, yet muddled in ever-spiraling ways. Usually, such a piece would earn a graceful scoff from Jet Set and his wife, and they would be on their glamorous way, but…
He had to know something about it. He didn’t know why. He always knew everything worth knowing, and while it was a crude painting done by nopony he’d recognized, that one color was just…
It was orange, and yellow… but also had a much brighter purple and white in it, with a mix of other colors that struck him as somewhat familiar. How could a color contain so many others?
Jet Set took a step closer, brushing aside a scrap of paper as he squinted into smudge. His wife would have liked this color, he thought. It reminded him somewhat of her.
Wind Rider scowled at the painting. It had insulted him, it had, by the sheer audacity of being mediocre. His gaze darted around it. Was this what had those elitist pricks’ tails in a twist? This? He’d gotten a ticket, same as everypony else, but by the time he’d gotten to this gallery, they’d all but cleared out. Hmph. Small wonder why!
It was grey. Obviously. A grey puddle for foals to splash through while they dreamed of greatness only somepony like him could achieve. Grey. That was it.
Well, not it, per se. The color bulged. It swelled up, louder and louder, like the first tuning notes of an orchestra. Ponies who’d dedicated their lives to more pointless ventures would recognize each instrument individually, but Wind Rider didn’t need to be able to tell an oboe from a bassoon to say that it was noise. In the same way, he could say that the water was grey, because it didn’t really matter and so whatever word he used for it was as accurate as anything else anypony could say.
Grey, and… no. There was nothing else there. Nothing was behind the grey, pressing against it like the charged seconds before lightning cleaves the atmosphere, because nothing could be.
So why did it still bother him? He frowned at it for wasting his time.
But he couldn’t quite turn away, and not even the impudent scrawl of signage could keep him from leaning in just a little bit closer. This painting wasn’t worth the cost of its own canvas. Surely the real mystery was that more ponies hadn’t mistaken it for garbage and hauled it away, right?
The grey bloated, audacious in its existence. There couldn’t have been other colors just behind it, pounding against the back, pressing like so many hooves, because that was impossible and he didn’t have time for such worthless whimsy.
His hoof reached out, as though to meet theirs, and whether it was to push aside the grey and let the true colors out or to force the swollen hues back into their rightful place, Wind Rider didn’t know.
That thought, like so many others, just wasn’t worth his time.
“Gonna pull out of the competition already?” Came the distracted query from the back of the gallery. There were more pressing matters for them to attend to than one student out of the lot.
“Yes. I really am sorry for the trouble,” Sweetie Belle all but purred, carefully tucking the canvas away in its bag. She didn’t need to peek at it to see the blueish brown of the water that seemed to ripple slightly as she moved.
“But you were doing so well, and in Canterlot! That’s the mark of blossoming talent, anonymous or not.” The guard swiveled towards her in his chair, eyes not leaving the security tape. They’d left the gallery, all of them, according to every piece of footage the museum had hurriedly scraped together, but so many of those invited had never arrived home.
In the coming days, Sweetie Belle was sure there’d be more scrutiny on the case, but by then she’d be long gone, and all but forgotten. One more nervous student pulling out of a showcasing when others would likely be rushing to withdraw when the museum closed for investigation? Well, who could blame her?
She smiled back, and pushed the painting’s sign in its pocket, alongside the special placard she’d made to go with it. CAUTION: DON’T TOUCH! PAINT STILL WET!, it read. “That’s okay,” Sweetie Belle said softly, picking up the carrying case and trotting towards the door. “I hear they’ve got a spot for me in Manehattan, and I think this is something they really need to see. Another day, another showing.”
“Alright, if you’re sure.” He shrugged, eyes flicking downward for only a brief second as he crossed out her name and painting from the list of student entries.
To Those For Whom The Rules Don’t Apply, by Sweetie Belle
