Sodom, 1906 (Open)

[rowan]

The black smoke burned their throats and filled their lungs; like the name of the God who had forgotten them, or the name of the Devil who had come for them. It blocked out the sun, stretching the oppressive darkness from night into day. Only the hellish glow of flames served to illuminate the chaotic scene. The Great Fire raged uncontrollably through the city, its deafening roar mixing with the shouts and screams of humans in pure, fearful anarchy. They scattered in the streets, in flight, or in desperate attempts to quell the inferno. Some destroyed houses- history, livelihood- in a bid to slow its rampage. But it continued, unchecked; a brilliant, orange tiger satisfying its appetite on the lives and history of The City. Many escaped, by car or by boat, all staring transfixed at the widespread destruction, all wondering as to the fates of friends and family. It raged for four days and nights without ceasing, and no one was certain when it would end. All who witnessed that spectacle, however, were sure of one thing. San Francisco was no more. As the smoke cleared, their suspicions were confirmed. The city lay in ruins, the destruction was indescribable. Slowly, however, they began to filter back in, and they began to rebuild, as humans do.



100 years later, Rowan Jaeger stood under mild winter sun, in the midst of San Francisco’s thriving downtown. He was dressed simply, in black corduroys and a button down white shirt, and stood next to a sign which read “San Francisco Museum of Modern Art” Striding up the steps among a stream of tourists and San Francisco residents, Rowan felt unsure of which group he fit into. Once inside the glass entry way, he paid for a day-pass, and greeted the perky young woman behind the desk.

“Would you like to purchase an audio tour for the day, sir?” She asked with a smile. He declined with a succinct shake of his head, and smiled back before pocketing his ticket and walking into the museum. Here, the tourists stood and marveled at the unusual architecture, and the San Franciscans quickly dispersed, to see the galleries they had come to observe. Rowan took them both in with a sweeping glance, and started for the doorway to the main exhibition hall. Taking an elastic from his wrist, he pulled back his black hair as he climbed the escalator to the upper floor galleries. In the last thirty years, the museum had transformed itself, and become one of the premiere exhibits of twentieth century art. He could easily see how it earned this prestige, walking slowly through room after room full of epic paintings and photographs: Paul Klee, Jackson Pollock, and Ansel Adams, all were showcased in the pristine, white galleries.

Rowan observed each piece of artwork individually, but these were not what he had come to see. He had read about a new acquisition in the newspaper, a piece from the very start of the century, and a homage to the tumultuous history of San Francisco. As he rounded a corner, he came into a white room, empty save for the one painting that dominated the far wall.



It depicted San Francisco from the bay, during its darkest time, the Great Fire of 1906. It had ravaged the city, leaving over three thousand dead, and destroying three fourths of the architecture. Yet somehow, it had survived, and lived on to become one of America’s wealthiest and most diverse cities.

Rowan sat down at a bench, staring transfixed at the massive painting, and wondered about its deep history. The ominous black cloud of smoke dominated the scene, and impassable wall, like ruined city the fire left behind. Somehow, though, San Francisco survived, and through the tenacity of human spirit, thrived again.

Did they find the strength to move on in their unity? Or was that incredible resiliance a product of their human individuality As this thought occured to him, he reflected both on his own life, and on the coming conflict in the school. Human kind, he thought, do they find strength in others, or in themselves.

[Leon Loire]

Pure curiosity. That was what had drawn another Senior of Hircine High to the Museum's latest exhibition; it had been pure, dominating curiosity. And perhaps, intertwined in that blend, a bit of need for some actual historical depth. After all, his American History teacher was failing horribly on quenching that need.

Stepping forward through the main entrance, Leon Loire's eyes analyzed the wide-arched space above his shaggy-haired head, the color of his sage collared shirt lightly rubbing against his neck whenever his head pivoted. His hands were currently hidden away inside the loose fit pockets of his dark navy jeans, his legs firmly planted on the marble tile underneath from a comfortable pair of chocolate-flavored shoes. The silver watch across Leon's left wrist read the time of day to be in the afternoon - just after lunch, leaving the man with a satisfied stomach.

His feet now strolling forward, Loire's left hand pulled out a black-leather wallet as his right retrieved the proper number of paper currency, composed of one Jackson, two Lincolns, and a few Washingtons, and bartered the collection of greens for a single, smaller piece of paper inscribed with various words and numbers. Pocketing this paper of supposedly equal worth to the dollars he traded, Loire turned on his heel to follow the stairs upward, his mind leading him blindly, his eyes rather to analyze whatever came past them.

It didn't take long to find the new exhibit, since the majority of the tourists through the building were heading in such a direction. 'For once, following the herd actually served a purpose.'

Entering the large antechamber with a look of intrigue, Loire found the room to be equal in general appearance to the other display corridors: bright, beautiful pearl white paint, striking architecture of chiseled detail, and subtle hues in the milky scents of the floor. One key detail seemed different, however, and Leon's eye sight told him it was a separate object; in fact, the object.

Leon realized the piece had to be what he was searching for. Slowly inching forward with a light interest, Leon found himself standing behind a seated man of similar age, who seemed more absorbed by the image than Loire.

Others may have looked to the artist's style, or the metaphorical intentions, but Leon looked to something similar to the man that sat before him - even without realizing it. He thought of the chaotic flames of the Fire devouring the old San Francisco, its single embodiment unstoppable, invincible, as the many citizens of the doomed city ran to evade it. The painting depicted thousands of Californians rowing away from the danger in small boats, their faces faintly discernible. Their faces told fear, shock, disbelief.

While the other student thought of how individualism or conformity revived the city, Leon saw another image. He looked to that gigantic, dominating cloud of ash and shadow, its power overwhelming, sickening. It had been born out of circumstance - yet, perhaps if the people of San Francisco had not been so absorbed in the power of the Industrial Age, the lack of social interest and safety infamous for the time period, then perhaps the city could have prevented the gas lines catching fire from the previous earthquake, or would have been able to fight it.

Of course, the people of that time period had no idea of the circumstances, and could not be blamed for the result. But what Loire had begun to believe was that conformity was only a policy of the world that birthed out of compromise, and the idea of all individuals uniting under one banner brought those same individuals taking their own powers for granted. Conformity was born from the majority of society agreeing on an individualistic thought, and hence, conformity was an extension of an individual's power, multiplied by infinite possibilities.

Then again, Conformity was a double-edged sword. When it brings progress and protection of individualism, it could just as easily result in stand stills and oppression.

'At that time, the new conformity of the Progressive movement allowed for the American people to battle the oppression of the few, the conformists of the industries. Now, in modern San Francisco, we have many whom - I hope - wish to battle the oppression of the few who believe in the Corporal Punishment System. The Progressive movement called for all individuals and their opinions to clash against the supposed strength of the few. That cloud, perhaps, represents the backlash of the old oppression, and it seems relevant that it is ready to return...'

Realizing he had been lost in thought yet again, Leon looked down to find that same Senior still sitting there, analyzing the painting.

'He seems an intelligent person to be observing it so long. Perhaps...'

Leon tapped the shoulder of his fellow Senior lightly and politely, looking toward the back of his head with a simple question, "So, what is it you see? I'm seeing a bit of a massive form overtaking another, but I never can tell. You seem interested in this work. You mind filling me in on your personal thoughts?"

[rowan]

Rowan descended into thought, the spectrum of his thoughts reflecting in the strokes and colors of the canvas. Initially, it showed him his own memories like a mirror. The fearsome glow seemed to him to be his own dragon of vengeance. As he focused on the painting he imagined, peering through the ominous black cloud, a vision of two familiar eyes, searing with hatred. Even evoking the terrifying memories caused his hair to stand on end, and he briefly cast his own eyes to the ground, afraid to meet the gaze of the illusory demon.

When he again glanced back to the painting, a new form began to present itself. The fleeing citizens, boatfuls of fearful San Franciscans, represented both the past and the present.

-History it seems, is repeating itself- He thought. Indeed, San Francisco, and all of America, had a new fire, a century later, in the form of the Corporal Punishment System. However, it was closer to the social turmoil of the century’s beginning than to the literal flames. Having seen the state of the student body, Rowan could not help but be reminded of the times before labor unions had ended the grip of the robber barons; when strikes had been violent and bloody, and oppression had set the tone of the cities.

As Rowan considered the two similar scenarios- they were a bit too close for comfort-, he observed the shadow of an individual behind him. Feeling the tap on his shoulder, he roused himself from his thought to hear the man’s voice; he sounded of approximately Rowan’s age. As the man, presumably a fellow student, asked him his own thoughts on the painting, Rowan considered his words, and looked to the painting again. He still saw within it his own personal demons, but the comments he heard about forms overtaking each other caused him to view it more abstractly. Not once while he thought did he look up to meet the gaze of the stranger; he kept his gaze transfixed, and, after a few long moments he shifted his position. Resting his elbows on his knees, his left hand formed a fist which his right held, and on this he rested his chin. Squinting slightly, he breathed an audible sigh, and spoke in a deep, but soft voice.

“I agree with you. But what exactly these forms are, I’m not sure. At first, I saw the fire as nature’s vengeance, punishing mankind for its relentless pursuit of progress…” He paused, as if he were considering the weight of each word, and the room was silent. Finding another student here was not a small surprise, he would not have expected anyone else to want to spend there weekend in a museum. But, San Francisco was a big city, and Rowan realized it was pure arrogance to assume that he was that unique among its youth. Regardless, he was always pleased to meet someone with similar interests, and the young man’s questioned had got him thinking. After the short paused, he continued again

“…But thinking back, it was only the gas lines, and the shoddy construction, that started the fires. So perhaps, it is mankind’s desire for progress and control, which is defeating itself.” Now he looked at the stranger for the first time; he had been correct in guessing his age, he looked under 20. Observing his face, Rowan found it familiar, and guessed that he had seen him in the hallways of Hircine; though Rowan himself knew few of his fellow students personally. Narrowing his eyes, Rowan sized the man up, and spoke a last comment, a subtle hint at the plight that had befallen modern students. Though his words were grave, he spoke them with a casual air, rubbing the dark stubble of his face in a tired gesture.

“I think that the desire for control is something that has caused many of the great problems of the past… and still causes most of the problems of today. You?”

He shifted well to the left, giving the youth ample room to sit at the bench, making a welcoming gesture with his right hand, and giving his typical, slight smile.

[Leon Loire]

"I'm not really sure that 'control' was exactly the issue of that time period. The desire for progress is always an attribute of the human being, and that point in history was attempting to move away from the danger of lacking safety nets, but still nothing close to what we have today. Then again, it is curious if the Fire would have occurred whether they had better oil line protection or not - even if they had the proper technology. In the end, with Mother Nature, you can only accept what she brings, and live on."

Sitting down beside the stranger, Leon nodded in thanks to the courtesy. Quietly returning his gaze back to the painting, Leon felt a bit of uncertainly cross his own interpretation of the art's original intent. Could the artist really have meant the painting to depict a lack of control leading to the Great Fire? No... quite clearly, it was intended as a depiction of tragedy, aimed to remind those of Mother Nature's terrible power.

But, of course, Leon tended to allow his liberal mindset to feed off whatever sources it could to reinforce his own ideas. That time period was led by one of his heroes, Theodore Roosevelt, and his friends at the Sierra Club. The rise of progressivism and its spearhead president was the clear result of Loire's view of the artwork, and in all honesty, he wasn't sure if he could accurately read the artwork because of that fact of bias.

And again, he wasn't much of an artist in the first place...

Turning to the stranger with an earnest curiosity, Loire nodded in attention, "You'll have to forgive me, my interpretation of art isn't exactly that sound. I'm more of a philosopher, not an artist. I leave such beauty to others. Still, I'm curious what you consider yourself. Are you one that paints, or something else? Oh, if you don't mind me asking, of course."