#thrawn/art

[themummersfolly]

Brotherly Art

alt. title: Love Is Stored In the Infodump

This is the first of a three part series on Thrawn's relationship to art. He's such a nerd, I love him so much.

-----

People who meet Thrawn often think he’s quiet. People who know him, at least for any length of time, often wish he was.

Thrass understands the complaint, but he doesn’t share it. When his brother gets onto certain topics, the stiff poise and awkward reserve melt away; his eyes shine with more than bioluminescence, and he lays out his opinions with the enthusiasm of a child and the earnestness of a professor. True, no one else can get a word in edgewise. But Thrass has spent enough time in university to appreciate the free dispersal of knowledge by someone passionate about the topic. And Thrawn rarely looks so alive, let alone happy. Thrass wants to see him happy.

“-but in 68 BCA, you start to see a shift in the assembly technique, as though the makers’ perspective on the physical possibilities of their craft has begun to shift. The history books say they didn’t have any contact with outsiders until at least 50 BCA, but I think we can see from the pottery alone that the date of first contact can be pushed back by almost a decade. It shows up in other artifacts, but it’s most clear here that their whole conception of their place in the universe underwent a seismic shift-” Thrawn looks up from the zoomed-in picture of a potshard on his questis and glances at Thrass. “This isn’t boring, is it?”

Someday, Thrass reflects, he’d like to meet whoever told Thrawn his interests were boring. There’ll be an assault charge, of course, but he’s fairly certain he can talk his way out of the worst of it. “Not at all. I like hearing what you think.” His own questis pings. “Delivery’s almost here.”

“Ok. I have to use the fresher anyway.” A look of urgency crosses Thrawn’s face and he practically vaults the couch on his way. Thrass shakes his head. Trust Thrawn to get so wrapped up in a topic he forgets to pee. Thrass gets up to clear the table for their meal and brings Thrawn’s questis with him. When he sets it down, the jolt causes the screen to switch back on. He blinks. Instead of the potshard, the screen is a solid, alarming blue.

“Thrawn, I think something is wrong with your questis.”

Thrawn emerges from the fresher, still drying his hands. Thrass hands him the device.

“It’s gone all blue. If I broke it, I’ll replace it-”

“Oh, no, it’s fine.” Thrawn breathes a visible sigh of relief. “That’s just the lock screen.”

“You set your lock screen to The Blue Screen of Death?” In fairness, it’s not the strangest thing his brother’s ever done. Thrawn shakes his head.

“It’s a painting by Cli’ure’akoio, one of her Color Studies. I’ve got downloads of all her older work, this one’s my favorite. Most people just see skin tone when they look at it, but a blue this saturated and even is really difficult to produce outside electronic media. And look how she applied it, it’s hard to tell here but there are no visible brushstrokes. That’s what makes this picture unique: she’s taken something absurdly simple and executed it so perfectly it’s like she’s daring people to say they could do the same thing, openly flexing on her critics-”

And just like that, he’s off on an extended explanation of the experimental paintings of Cli’ure’akoio.

Later, as Thrawn scrolls through his questis looking for a particular painting, Thrass peers over his shoulder. Most people’s image files are full of family members, tookas, or scantily clad individuals they deny any knowledge of; Thrawn’s is full of art downloads.

“Do you have any pictures you took yourself?”

“Oh, certainly.” He pauses on a blurry picture of a stack of duracrete slabs. “I took this at the sculpture festival last year. I usually stick to downloads, though. I don’t take very good pictures.”

Thrass shakes his head. “Have you ever thought about collecting any pieces yourself?”

Thrawn doesn’t look up from scrolling. “I don’t have the room; I live on a light cruiser. Besides, most of these cost more money than I’ll ever see.” There’s a wistfulness in his voice that only someone who knows him well would pick up on. An idea takes root in Thrass’s mind; he files it away for later.

Thrawn’s shore leave is over entirely too soon, in Thrass’s opinion. He hurries to the shuttle station to see him off, careful not to drop the package under his arm.

He spots his brother on the edge of a knot of CEDF personnel, waiting for the shuttle to blackdock. Thrawn stands outside the chattering conversations of his peers, hands behind his back, waiting his turn to contribute to the discussion. He turns when he sees Thrass approaching.

“I was worried you wouldn’t make it,” he says by way of greeting. Thrass envelops him in a hug.

“Had an appointment I had to keep. Besides, I have a going away present I have to give you.”

He takes the package from under his arm and presents it to Thrawn. By now the others have taken note and gathering around to watch.

“Open it.”

Thrawn strips the wrapping away and stares at the transparesteel case. Then he registers its contents and his mouth falls open. “You didn’t-”

“I told her what you said about her Color Studies. She says she’d be honored to have this piece in the hands of someone who can appreciate it.”

One of Thrawn’s peers looks over his shoulder at the painting. “I don’t get it.”

“It’s one of Cli’ure’akoio’s latest series, Studies In Color and Texture.” Thrawn looks like he’s tearing up. “Each tile is done in a different pigment and brush stroke.” He holds the painting in its case as though receiving a holy covenant. “This is for me?”

Thrass nods. “I had it mounted in a protective case. It’ll be as safe as anything on the ship- probably safer.”

Thrawn meets his eyes, a significant effort for him, Thrass knows. “I’ll treasure it forever.”

“It’s a good start to your collection.” A tone clangs over the loudspeakers, announcing the arrival of the shuttle. “There’s no time now. But when you get home, you’ll have to explain the series to me.”

Thrawn won’t be able to wait until his next shore leave, Thrass reflects as he waves goodbye. His next letter is likely to be several densely packed pages, expounding on the technical aspects and deeper meaning of the work of Cli’ure’akoio, fit more for a graduate level art history paper than a casual conversation.

Thrass can’t wait to read it.

[groovygrayvy]

Hi thrawn tumblr

[tyquu]

I’m sure this joke has been done a bajillion times before but i was feeling super unserious yesterday

[ruthesla]

Uncle Thrawn

[chasingthewesternsun]

Mad we didn’t see thrawn in ep 3 but happy i got to finish my dumb comic (҂◡_◡) ᕤ

[littlekhada]

это и есть ам ням / eli gave him this

[sanflawoah]

Rogue One AU: everything is the same but Thrawn shows up last minute.

[spicynectarines]

my take on this trend

[shoppingbaag]

I have to make this up!!

[worgjen]

my friend's idea

[klazje]

[themummersfolly]

Nonverbal Art

alt. title: Art Nerd's Origin Story

Anyone else ever wonder why Thrawn's interest in art focuses so heavily on sussing out the backstory of the artist? Yeah.

I have no idea how pediatric therapy works in real life.

-----

Vurawn doesn’t need a doctor to tell him he’s different.

There’s the whole talking thing, for example. Vurawn doesn’t remember learning to talk, even though he remembers Vurika and Mom says he didn’t start talking until after that. A lot of people still think he can’t talk, apparently, because he doesn’t do it very often. He’s not sure what the point is. He understands just fine, and besides, half the time when he does talk people get mad or start acting funny.

A lot of grownups think that not talking means he doesn’t hear either; even Mom and Dad forget sometimes. He overhears them talking about him. For a long time Mom thought he was stupid. It seemed to make her happy, for some reason. He doesn’t feel stupid; but then, he’s not sure if stupid and smart are things you can feel like. Vurika was smart, and they took her away and Mom was sad. Maybe if he’s stupid, he’ll get to stay and make Mom happy.

The army man said he was smart, when he gave everybody that test-thingy at school. But then he got into a fight with Teni the next day and afterward everybody said he was stupid. At least until the teacher made them stop.

No, he doesn’t need a doctor to tell him he’s weird, but here he is anyway.

He kicks his feet back and forth under the chair while he waits and thinks about the marker set Dad said he’ll get if he’s good for the doctor. He hopes there’s lots of orange markers. Orange is his favorite color right now. At school, there are fourteen different kinds of orange marker in the marker bin; he knows because he counted. First he lined them all up in order, then he put them in groups of markers from the same set and lined those up in order. Or he tried to, before the teacher yelled at him for hogging the orange markers.

He hopes he can be good enough to get the markers. Even when he tries to be good, he always does something wrong without meaning to.

“Kivu’raw’nuru?”

That’s his name. He hops out of his seat and follows Mom into the back office.

He likes going to this doctor, honestly. She never gives him shots or gets mad when he does the thing with his hands to feel better. There are toys, and neat pictures to look at, and lots and lots of markers.

He wanders around the room, looking at the toys while Mom talks to the doctor.

“-test scores are high, but the teacher says he’s behind in his social development. He rarely talks, he never looks me in the eyes-”

Dad thinks Mom wants there to be something wrong with him, at least he said so last night. Vurawn doesn’t know why everyone wants him to look at their eyes; it makes him as uncomfortable as when he has to not fidget.

The grownups finish talking and the doctor comes over to where he is.

“Good morning, Vurawn.”

It takes him a moment, but he remembers there’s something he’s supposed to do when people greet him.

“Hi.”

The doctor asks him questions; he’s supposed to answer with his big kid words, and he does. The doctor is happy, he’s doing it right. Maybe he will get that marker set.

“Vurawn, I’d like you to draw your family for me. Will you do that now, please?”

He’s not sure why she needs him to do that, but then he’s not sure why she asked all those questions, either. He does like to color, though.

It doesn’t take him long to draw everyone who’s important to him. When he’s done, the doctor sits down next to him.

“Tell me about your picture. Who’s that?” She points at the picture that is pretty obviously Mom. One by one, she points to each figure he drew and asks about it. Mom. Dad. Himself. The neighbor’s tooka. Vurika. He doesn’t know why she wants him to talk about them; most of the time when he talks about things he likes, people act like he’s doing something wrong and he doesn't know why. But the doctor lets him talk, so he does. It feels good to talk about things he likes.

When he’s told her all about his drawing, she picks it up and takes it over to Mom. He listens to them talk, and with no one to tell him not to, dumps out the markers and begins sorting them.

“-normal cognitive development for a child his age. But I think part of the issue is he misses his sister.”

That gets Vurawn’s attention. He’s not supposed to talk about Vurika; whenever he does, Mom gets sad and all the other grownups tell him he should be happy she gets to serve the Ascendancy. The doctor keeps talking.

“You see how much detail he put into her portrait; he clearly still remembers her, and remembers her well. Even as young as he was, her removal had a profound effect on him. That might be why he’s having difficulty adjusting socially.”

She can tell all that from his drawing?

“And here- this is your neighbor’s pet. She turns up in a number of drawings he’s done for me, so she’s clearly an important figure in his life. He may benefit from a therapy animal. If you can’t have one where you live, there are programs you can sign him up for-”

Every time he talks about Flower the Tooka, people look at him like he’s crazy! But the doctor had looked at his picture and understood immediately. Is that the secret? Can he really get people to understand him by drawing pictures for them?

And if it works that way, maybe it works the other way around, too. Maybe if he looks at pictures other people draw, they’ll seem less weird. Maybe the world makes sense if you draw it.

It’s like he’s spent his whole life in a dark, scary hallway, and suddenly, someone in a room nearby turns on a light. He decides to move toward it.

“Mom, I’d like you to draw a picture for me. Will you do that for me now, please?”

He’s been good all day, not just at the doctor. When Dad comes home, he has the marker set in hand, and the first thing Vurawn does is take it over to Mom.

She looks surprised, and he’s not sure she’ll go along with it. But then she takes the markers and flimsi and starts drawing. To keep himself busy, Vurawn picks up the pieces of the gadget she was working on and starts arranging them in order. They’re all very different, and it’s hard to figure out what order they should go in. Vurawn likes puzzles like this.

He’s just figured out where the big shiny piece should go when Mom slaps a marker down hard, puts her face into her hands, and starts shaking. Vurawn jumps. At first he thinks she’s mad at him for playing with her project. Then he sees that she’s crying.

“I’m sorry, Vurawn- it’s ok. I just can’t. You’re ok.” She doesn’t look up from her hands. Vurawn stands on his chair to look across the table at what she’s drawn.

It’s a grownup kind of drawing, much more complicated than his sensible stick figures. The face that stares out from the page is that of a little girl, about his age. It’s unfinished; Mom put the marker down before she colored it in.

“I’m sorry I got upset, Vurawn, I don’t know why I did that.” Mom wipes her eyes. Vurawn is still looking at the picture.

“It’s cause you miss Vurika.”

Mom freezes. He’s not sure if that means she understands, so he tries again.

“You’re sad cause Vurika had to go away. You’re scared that I might have to go away, too. But if I’m stupid, I get to stay with you, cause stupid people don’t have to serve the Ascen’a’cy.” He frowns at the tabletop, choosing his next words. “I can be stupid for you, Mom.”

He expects her to be happy at the offer, but instead she starts crying even harder. Vurawn feels the panic start to well up in his chest. He’s done something wrong again. Mom is upset, and Dad will be mad, and he doesn’t know how to fix it because he doesn’t even know what he did wrong-

Mom leans over and scoops him up in a hug.

“You’re not stupid, you’re a brilliant, brilliant little boy. I love you so much!” Her tears are getting his shirt wet, and now they’re both crying. “Don’t ever let anyone tell you you’re stupid! I just- I just want what’s best for you, even if you have to go away. My brilliant little boy!” She takes his face in her hands and makes him look at her. “If they chose you- I need you to remember. I love you so much, I’m so proud of you, and I don’t want you to ever look back.”

Vurawn doesn’t understand, but he nods his head because Mom needs him to. Then he leans into her shoulder and cries.

[mm167]

occasionally some of the lights on the bridge of the Chimaera flicker off, though the Admiral and his aide don’t seem to mind when it happens

[letoscrawls]

they separated forever after this

[sudden-stops-kill]

by lyle cruse

https://twitter.com/Lyle_Cruse

[littlekhada]