While art is subjective, your hate for Stephen Vincent Strange was pure and simple. An arrogant, crude and tasteless man. One of close-minded thinking and a lack of creativity.
This was the type of person any artist like you would despise.
~~~
All...
Classical music ran through the gallery like a soft mist, tingling at the sense of elegance paired with crystalline glasses and endless champagne. Platinum white walls with figures in monotone neutrals gliding past archways into different collections was an art piece on its own.
As you drank and sipped at the gentle fizzed liquor, a new figure appeared at your side. Tall, broad frame, impressive silver streaks on the side of charcoal black hair. His aftershave was an intoxicating scent, almost alluring and undoubtedly alluding to his wealth.
"Thoughts?" You gesture to the large painting. Oil on canvas depicting a woman moving through a rippling mirror, nothing but meadows of flowers in the background, each blossom opening to reveal teary eyes, bloodied and lingering.
"It's... a painting," he chuckles. "Art isn't exactly my thing,"
"It's nobody's unless they've studied it for years," you joke, glancing at him and thankful when you see a small smile forming. "What do you see?"
"A woman... a mirror... and creepy flowers," his comment made you laugh lightly.
"And what do you think this painting is about? What does it tell you?"
"I think it's about..." he pretends to inspect it closer like a modern-day Sherlock Holmes, "an artist who thought he could paint random things on a canvas and plaster a high enough price tag that would trick anyone stupid enough to buy it," his tone meant this was nothing but honesty, that was as much as you could respect.
You scoff gently, "I see a painting depicting a woman escaping the judgemental reality. Even within her dreams, she is judged by hundreds of those around her. Flowers, soft and innocent, now malicious and hateful... it's a reflection of our times; hence the mirror... and escaping it would be a dream, hence the surrealist style," you let each word flow out your mouth like a poem, smiling to yourself while the stranger stood impressed.
"Stephen Strange, a neurosurgeon at Metro-general," he held his hand out, which you ignore.
"Ah, Y/n, darling!" One of your many usual buyers, Alfonzo, approaches you, arms wide open. He was a weary older man, humble with his everyday navy cardigan and brown trousers stained with mustard, how his frail hands were always so gentle and crow's feet more prominent when he smiled brighter than the sun. "Love to see your paintings up for sale again," he kisses both cheeks before gesturing to the piece before you three. "Utterly brilliant, you've done it again,"
Strange took a few steps back in his head, looking to the side of the painting and seeing it there:
Y/n L/n My Reality (2011) Oil on canvas 48" x 72" $24,500
"Hardly a Rene Magritte, but you tend to treat it like one," you pat the old man on the shoulder.
"No, no, Y/n," he brought your face down to his low height.
"Woah-"
"You see, I saw a psychic! Told me how your name will be worth millions- your face will be recognised by all for your work," he then peers at another group of exhibition attendees. "Ah! My dear, I see you've skipped your monthly therapy session," Alonzo nearly chases after a woman who seemed embarrassed at his comment.
"So... you're the artist,"
"Stephen Strange, what an arrogant man you are," clicking your tongue, you eye him with no lingering interest. "No shame insulting someone to their face... but respect for staying true to your comment,"
"Isn't honesty the best policy?"
"Sometimes shutting up is a good policy, Mr Strange,"
"Doctor-" but by that point, you were gone within the crowd, "Strange... It's Doctor Strange," a scowl formed along his face, his empty glass shoved into a waiter's hand as he stormed towards the exit.
~~~
Every once in a while, Stephen would catch sight of you at some events. Whether a gala or a significant charity event. While you paid his malicious glares no mind, it was hard to avoid any interactions within such events. How every word you both spoke to each other would radiate pettiness. To those around you, to say you both despised each other would be an understatement.
"Hello, L/n-" Strange couldn't even finish his back-handed compliment, considering you simply walked by him, bumping shoulders to socialise with wealthy donators by the buffet table. "Rude..."
~~~
Writing down your donation on the small card, Stephen Strange appeared to input his. "Finally got your head out of your ass to do some good?" You look at the number on his donation card when he ignores you and scoffs. That triggered a reaction from him.
"What?" he doesn't make eye contact but readies the pen again.
"Just fifteen thousand?" folding up your donation, you hand it over, "Come on, Mr Strange, use that money you flaunt," taking the pencil from him, he didn't stop you when you added another zero at the end. "That's more like it... what a generous man,"
"I try my best," he plays along with an eye roll, handing over the card to the collectors, "and you?"
"Darling, could you read out my donation again? I had just forgotten," you look to the lovely collector, who nods, finding your card.
"Two hundred thousand, is that alright?" she held the card out.
You wish you could have taken a photo of his look at that moment, "Add another fifty thousand, please," now this was a better photo opportunity, "thank you," taking out a small from the flower arrangements, you place it in the pocket of his crisp navy suit.
~~~
"Evening, Mr Strange," you greet him, a hand held out.
"L/n... lovely to see you here," he shakes your hand, wiping it passive-aggressively behind his back just as you did.
"Can't say the same about you," grabbing a champagne glass, another was taken for him.
"Did you poison this one?" he sneered while one of the gala hosts who had intended to introduce you to Strange slowly backed away.
"That would grant you the attention you always want, wouldn't it?" raising the glass to clink with his, you eye the pristine suit he wore before fixing his tie, "maybe try looking presentable first,"
He clicks his tongue with a scoff, drinking up with his eyes on yours, "anything else you feel the need to point out?"
"Only that your car is being towed away," pulling on the tie slightly, your hot, heavy breaths dance a little against each other before you walk away.
"Is it now- is it??" he turns to see his car still in its place while you walk off and mouth 'gullible' after looking over your shoulder at him. Muttering a few swear your way; he soon sees a small daisy left in his pocket again.
~~~
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SURPRISE SHAWTY
Y'all really thought I wouldn't pull a twist huh
(For those without context, I said I'd release a Sherlock book first but I ain't letting y'all escape trust issues that easily)
