Creative differences
“Can you just do me a favour?”
Carnistir looked up in irritation at Tyelkormo, who was waving a pair of grubby looking trousers.
“I’m busy,” said Carnistir, gesturing to his hand frame sat on his lap. He had hoped to use the afternoon to finish this piece of embroidery, but it appeared his brother had other ideas.
“Yeah I know, but these have a hole in, and that’s not exactly important or urgent-“
Carnistir knew Tyelkormo didn’t mean it in a nasty way, but he saw red all the same. “Fix your own damn clothes,” he snarled.
“But you’re the best at this,” Tyelkormo pressed, seeming genuinely unsure as to why he was causing such offence. “Can’t you just-“
Carnistir threw his scissors at him and stalked off.
Later, Father found him sulking in Macalaurë’s music room. Macalaurë never minded if Carnistir joined him as long as Carnistir was a quiet and reasonably attentive audience, and Tyelkormo tended to avoid it as listening to endless scales and repeated bars of song was not his idea of fun. Also, Macalaurë understood the value of a hobby that wasn’t completely practical in what it created.
Father gave Macalaurë a Look, and Macalaurë immediately found something else to do outside that was apparently urgent enough to be done right now. Carnistir made a space next to him on the comfy window seat, and his father plopped down next to him, and slung his arm around him, drawing him to his side in a hug. He was warm as usual, and it was a comforting heat against Carnistir’s cheek.
“I’ve spoken to Tyelkormo,” said Father. “He’s fixing his own trousers.”
Carnistir sighed. “I know he meant no offence, and I shouldn’t have thrown my scissors at him.”
Father was grinning when Carnistir looked up at him. He never was very good at disciplining them, after his own father’s very lenient parenting style. Carnistir knew it was a bone of contention between him and Mother.
“You probably shouldn’t have, no,” Father said breezily. “But I’ve spoken to him, and you know Turco isn’t one to particularly hold grudges, especially since he wasn’t injured. He’s agreed that he should probably learn to sew up his own clothes, with the amount of rips and tears he’s always getting.”
Carnistir smiled a little at that, before blowing out a breath of frustration. “It wasn’t that that bothered me!” he said, slumping in his seat. “It was his insinuation that the project I was doing was somehow lesser because it wasn’t something useful!”
Father laughed. “He’s rather in the wrong family then, if he believes that art must have function as well as form. But I don’t think he really thinks that. You know your brother, he can speak before proper consideration sometimes.”
Carnistir curled further into his father’s side, and the arm around him tightened in response. “But I feel like it’s not good enough,” he confessed quietly. “I’m just a hobbyist, it’s never going to be as good as I want it to be. Maybe I should just stick to things that are more useful. I’m never going to be-“
The weight of Grandmother Míriel hung in the air, before Father dispersed it with a snort.
“That’s absolute nonsense,” said Father decisively. “Genius is one thing, but hard work is always needed if it’s going to go anywhere. I see a hundred “genius smiths” a year, but there’s no one I’d rather have in my forge than one who picks it up a little slower, but is willing to put in the hard graft to be as good as they can be. Not only this, but your own mother makes the most beautiful sculptures that have no function but to create emotion in those that regard them.”
He paused for a second, as if deciding if he could say something. “Your grandfather told me that your grandmother was often questioned as to why she didn’t put her talents more towards the making of clothes, as opposed to simply embroidery. She could, and did, but her heart lay in her own patterns and designs. There is a room, in the palace, that is full of her projects both finished and unfinished. They are valuable despite not being wearable or “useful” because they are beautiful, and they bring joy to look at.”
Father rarely spoke about Grandmother Míriel, and Carnistir hung on his every word. He felt lighter, somehow, hearing this.
“May I see your current project?” Father asked, and Carnistir scrambled to grab it from next to him.
“It’s beautiful,” said Father. “May I have it once you’re done?”
“Of course!” said Carnistir. “I wasn’t sure if anyone would like it because it’s pretty abstract-“
“I’d love it,” said Father. He continued without any hesitation. “Your grandmother would be proud.”
