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Art for Art's Sake
2001 Angelia Sparrow
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Art comes only through suffering.

The artist suffers, exerts himself, and deprives
himself in service of his art. In the end, the quality of the art is only as good as the
pain that goes into it.

This is why art is restricted. The masses have enough pain, they need not be
enlightened to it by artists. I limit their art, wisely I think, to barest propaganda, and
treacly common works. It is a dangerous thing for the legendary Vialla to sing and
arouse emotion in the listeners. A woman painting spirals on her walls is not dangerous.
The painting defuses her energy and pain. Her spirals are seen and praised by her friends,
but arouse no emotion.

Yet, I am an artist.

I reflect on this irony as I step into my throne room. Vader was high art indeed. The
glorious mask hides Anakin's sweet face. The respirator, making each breath he draws
pain itself, was a masterstroke. The fire of the lava still burns in his skin, never to be
relieved. He could, of course, heal himself, were I gone. He is in constant pain, his only
surcease to inflict it on others.

He has begun creating his own artwork as well. Pity he did not bring me the Princess
as he had planned. I was very creative with his discipline for that error. He did betray
the bounty hunter, though. The carbonite sculpture hangs in his chambers. His masterpiece.

At the foot of the dais glows my masterpiece. Gold on gold. The golden youth encased
in a golden sphere of pure Force. In the Force-sphere, he is stretched to the limits, spread
to the four points, his body tense, muscles taut. The waves of Force caress his skin, creating
more pain through nerve induction. All he knows is suffering.

The pain defines him. It refines him, burning away the dross of idealism, of thought, leaving
behind only the purity of agony.

I touch his mind but briefly. It is beginning to slip from him. He has endured this for so
long: a year since Bespin, when he stumbled into the carbon-freezing chamber.  There is no
stumbling now. He is graceful, arched under the pain. He reaches for the Force, yet knows it is
what torments him, and he burns even more from the touch of it. Beautiful.

I seat myself carefully. I am not as young as I used to be. I watch young Skywalker for many
minutes, barely able to breathe for his rare perfection. Once, his blue eyes focus on me, but I do
not register within his suffering.  So very beautiful. The tension of his muscles contrasts with the
hazy lack of focus in his eyes.

The sheer perfection of his body is displayed from every angle. Were I twenty years younger,
I would circle the sphere, drinking his torment from each direction. As it is, I savor the view I have.

Outside, I sense my servant's anger approaching. It goads him to greater effort that I have turned
his son into art. One day, he will kill me for it.

Then my greatest art will begin.

It will start small. Skywalker will not long survive out of the Force sphere. His body has become
so acclimated to the pain that he can no longer live without the steady flow of neurotransmitters.
His mind will likewise shatter, unable to believe he is free.

Vader does not know it, but upon my death, his life-support ends as well. He could heal himself,
but not fast enough to survive. Nor could he escape the deadly gases that will flood his ventilator
the moment my presence is extinguished.

On every world, in every system, there are those for whom my death will be a trigger. Like an
avalanche, destruction will spread through the galaxy. Every world will combust, a grand funeral
pyre. My art, taken to its highest form.

I can hear my servant's steps outside the door, and I motion my guards to allow him in.
Who knows? Today may be the day my greatest masterpiece begins.

*end*