rufescent (hazel)
Dec 3, 2020 22:58:09 GMT -5
Post by Stare on Dec 3, 2020 22:58:09 GMT -5
Hazel Dalgaard had no patience for interviews.
They had absolutely no effect on the Games, on the art form, on any of it. If it were up to her, she would skip them altogether. But of course, it was not up to her. She had learned long ago that people - other people - were rather fond of superfluous things, like learning all about someone they had absolutely no connection to. She supposed that in the world of false realities that most Capitolites suspended themselves in, televised interviews were the closest thing they had to true, human connection. And since it was what other people wanted and other people were also who granted her her Gamemaker title, she allowed the interview.
Still, she couldn't stand the idea of being completely unproductive. When the interviewer arrived on the small, televised set, he found her already there with an easel, brushes, and a half-finished canvas. It was a winter landscape with beautiful evergreens scattered beneath a silver sky that only required a few finishing touches.
He tried to make small talk which Hazel pointedly ignored. There were only so many useless things that she could tolerate in one sitting. Eventually he gave up and signaled to get the cameras rolling, at which point Hazel began to paint in the bases to her trees.
"Gamemaker Dalgaard, thank you so much for agreeing to meet me. I'm sure you're a very busy woman right now."
She'd been averaging 92 minutes of sleep a night, but she flashed him a good-natured smile. "It's no trouble at all."
He grinned broadly, his teeth far too white. "I'll keep my questions brief so you can get back to work. Let's start with those opening days of the Games, shall we? I think I speak for everyone when I say I was a bit concerned." He laughed, so Hazel laughed along.
"Yes, I knew people might be a bit concerned about that. It was a... creative decision the three of us made, I suppose." She tilted her head as she focused in on a particular tiny branch peeking through the pine needles, trying to keep it as thin as a hair. "You see, the reality is, we knew that twenty three of them would have to die eventually. That is a certainty." This was the part of Hazel that was so often whispered about when people thought she couldn't hear - her mind worked in numbers, she wrote equations on the walls, she spoke of statistics and certainties, she was so terribly dull and robotic. People didn't understand that the numbers worked perfectly with the art, that none of it was truly separate in the way they thought it was. "We thought we would give them more time."
"How very generous." The interviewer raised his eyebrows. Clearly mercy was not an expected trait for a Gamemaker.
"Not at all." She started to paint the larger, darker trunk of one of the closer trees. That was when the interviewer began to smell it - that faint metallic scent. She glanced up and saw the way his eyebrows twitched in confusion, his smile faltering. "We gave them more time to get attached. To care about one another. Because the more they care about one another, the more wonderfully awful it is when they lose each other. There's no art greater than tragedy."
The interviewer's eyes had darted frantically toward her paintbrush, her strokes, but when she finished her answer he looked back up and tried to maintain his smile. "Of - of course. A brilliant strategy. And as we've seen, they've performed wonderfully in this particular tragedy."
Wonderfully. Hazel's smile became genuine. "They have. I must say, we were truly lucky with this group. There have been some heartbreaking moments, haven't there?" Or at least, that was what she'd been told. Hazel tried to distance herself from heartbreak as much as possible during the Games. It was too draining.
The interviewer didn't seem to have completely heard her, but he pulled himself together enough to say, "Yes, definitely!" After a moment he shook his head and tried for a grin. It looked grotesque. "Apologies to our audience if I seem distracted, it's just that Gamemaker Dalgaard's painting is quite - unique."
"Is it?" Hazel hummed, glancing down at her own work.
"Are you painting the tree trunks red?"
She shot him her sweetest smile. "Oh, it dries much darker. Nearly brown, actually. It's quite a rich, beautiful color."
He went very pale indeed and just barely managed to stumble through the rest of the interview. As soon as the cameras stopped rolling he muttered a few pleasantries and left as quickly as he could.
Hazel stayed there for a moment longer, contemplating both the canvas before her and the larger one with which she and the other Gamemakers had been working. In both cases, the sentiment was the same. It was a work of art requiring a steady, patient hand and an eye for what made it all work. The interviewer, like most people, didn't understand. If she could do something with that grander canvas, the one which everyone watched so diligently and admired so fervently, why couldn't she do the same with her own personal painting?
All the best masterpieces were painted in blood.
They had absolutely no effect on the Games, on the art form, on any of it. If it were up to her, she would skip them altogether. But of course, it was not up to her. She had learned long ago that people - other people - were rather fond of superfluous things, like learning all about someone they had absolutely no connection to. She supposed that in the world of false realities that most Capitolites suspended themselves in, televised interviews were the closest thing they had to true, human connection. And since it was what other people wanted and other people were also who granted her her Gamemaker title, she allowed the interview.
Still, she couldn't stand the idea of being completely unproductive. When the interviewer arrived on the small, televised set, he found her already there with an easel, brushes, and a half-finished canvas. It was a winter landscape with beautiful evergreens scattered beneath a silver sky that only required a few finishing touches.
He tried to make small talk which Hazel pointedly ignored. There were only so many useless things that she could tolerate in one sitting. Eventually he gave up and signaled to get the cameras rolling, at which point Hazel began to paint in the bases to her trees.
"Gamemaker Dalgaard, thank you so much for agreeing to meet me. I'm sure you're a very busy woman right now."
She'd been averaging 92 minutes of sleep a night, but she flashed him a good-natured smile. "It's no trouble at all."
He grinned broadly, his teeth far too white. "I'll keep my questions brief so you can get back to work. Let's start with those opening days of the Games, shall we? I think I speak for everyone when I say I was a bit concerned." He laughed, so Hazel laughed along.
"Yes, I knew people might be a bit concerned about that. It was a... creative decision the three of us made, I suppose." She tilted her head as she focused in on a particular tiny branch peeking through the pine needles, trying to keep it as thin as a hair. "You see, the reality is, we knew that twenty three of them would have to die eventually. That is a certainty." This was the part of Hazel that was so often whispered about when people thought she couldn't hear - her mind worked in numbers, she wrote equations on the walls, she spoke of statistics and certainties, she was so terribly dull and robotic. People didn't understand that the numbers worked perfectly with the art, that none of it was truly separate in the way they thought it was. "We thought we would give them more time."
"How very generous." The interviewer raised his eyebrows. Clearly mercy was not an expected trait for a Gamemaker.
"Not at all." She started to paint the larger, darker trunk of one of the closer trees. That was when the interviewer began to smell it - that faint metallic scent. She glanced up and saw the way his eyebrows twitched in confusion, his smile faltering. "We gave them more time to get attached. To care about one another. Because the more they care about one another, the more wonderfully awful it is when they lose each other. There's no art greater than tragedy."
The interviewer's eyes had darted frantically toward her paintbrush, her strokes, but when she finished her answer he looked back up and tried to maintain his smile. "Of - of course. A brilliant strategy. And as we've seen, they've performed wonderfully in this particular tragedy."
Wonderfully. Hazel's smile became genuine. "They have. I must say, we were truly lucky with this group. There have been some heartbreaking moments, haven't there?" Or at least, that was what she'd been told. Hazel tried to distance herself from heartbreak as much as possible during the Games. It was too draining.
The interviewer didn't seem to have completely heard her, but he pulled himself together enough to say, "Yes, definitely!" After a moment he shook his head and tried for a grin. It looked grotesque. "Apologies to our audience if I seem distracted, it's just that Gamemaker Dalgaard's painting is quite - unique."
"Is it?" Hazel hummed, glancing down at her own work.
"Are you painting the tree trunks red?"
She shot him her sweetest smile. "Oh, it dries much darker. Nearly brown, actually. It's quite a rich, beautiful color."
He went very pale indeed and just barely managed to stumble through the rest of the interview. As soon as the cameras stopped rolling he muttered a few pleasantries and left as quickly as he could.
Hazel stayed there for a moment longer, contemplating both the canvas before her and the larger one with which she and the other Gamemakers had been working. In both cases, the sentiment was the same. It was a work of art requiring a steady, patient hand and an eye for what made it all work. The interviewer, like most people, didn't understand. If she could do something with that grander canvas, the one which everyone watched so diligently and admired so fervently, why couldn't she do the same with her own personal painting?
All the best masterpieces were painted in blood.
