Tale Teller Club Music: Countess' Diaries, Ch 4, A Patron’s Dilemma: Beauty in the Eye of the Beholder?

Diary Entry: A Patron’s Dilemma: Beauty in the Eye of the Beholder?

The Brighton Arts Club, my palace of splendor, is a haven for the arts and a temple to creativity. As its benevolent and cultured Countess, I pride myself on fostering talent, no matter its origin or, shall we say... aesthetic appeal. Today, however, I found my finely tuned sensibilities put to the test.

Dennis Druvo, a gentleman of boundless enthusiasm and charm, graced my halls to present his collection of handcrafted treasures from Ghana. His wares, imbued with symbolism and heritage, are nothing short of extraordinary in their craftsmanship. And yet, dear reader, I must confess—some of the masks were quite possibly the most hideous objects I have ever laid eyes upon.

The first piece Dennis proudly displayed was an ebony mask of a village chief, complete with an exaggerated beard that cascaded down like a waterfall of petrified licorice. “It’s a symbolic figure,” Dennis explained, his voice tinged with reverence. “A chief villager, wise and powerful.” I nodded solemnly, suppressing a shudder as the mask's glassy eyes seemed to glare back at me in silent reproach.

“Remarkable,” I murmured, channeling every ounce of my well-bred politeness. “The craftsmanship is… unparalleled.”

He beamed at my response, and I dared not risk offending him by elaborating that the chief appeared less "wise and powerful" and more "angry about being carved out of a tree."

The Ashanti warrior mask was next—a formidable visage that, as Dennis so eloquently described, symbolized protection and security. I could only hope that its protective qualities extended to safeguarding my reputation as a patron of the arts. The warrior’s helmet, carved with intricate precision, seemed oddly proportioned, lending him a cross expression that I can only assume was the artisan’s interpretation of stoic menace. To my untrained eye, however, he looked rather as though someone had taken his lunch.

“How striking,” I said with a gracious smile. “A true celebration of strength.”

I dared not admit that the mask’s ferocious expression would haunt my dreams for weeks to come. I found myself wondering how one might politely hang such a piece without alarming visitors—or the cats, for that matter. Dominicus, ever the gallant rogue, would likely leap at it in a fit of mock battle, while Bellatrix would surely recoil in feline horror.

As Dennis unveiled more of his collection, my inner turmoil grew. There was the “machete farmer,” his face twisted in an enigmatic grimace, and the “village mother,” who seemed more harried than serene. Yet each piece carried a story, a depth of meaning that I could not help but admire—even as I questioned whether it was strictly necessary for art to be quite so... confronting.

Comedy, it seems, often lies in the unsaid. And so, I listened intently as Dennis described the cultural significance of each item, nodding at appropriate intervals and exclaiming over the ingenuity of the artisans. “How marvelous,” I said of a particularly menacing piece. “It shall surely inspire fear—or, er, respect—wherever it is displayed.”

In truth, I admired Dennis’s dedication and the heart he poured into his work. It takes a rare sort of courage to present one’s vision to the world, particularly when that vision might be mistaken for the contents of a particularly eccentric nightmare.

As Dennis packed up his stall for the day, I reflected on the peculiar role of a patron. To nurture the arts, one must often set aside one’s personal preferences and embrace the diversity of human expression—even when that expression stares back at you with eyes carved into unsettling symmetry. It is a small sacrifice for the greater glory of culture.

And so, I retire to my chambers with a renewed sense of purpose—and a small, tastefully wrapped mask that I shall hang discreetly in the pantry, where it can inspire the flour and sugar to new heights of creativity.