IX.iii. A Dressing Down in a Small Chapel

"The true work of art is but a shadow of the divine perfection."
- Michelangelo Buonarotti

"I have been reading your journal, Nicholas, and I must say I disapprove. Just last week you wrote about how saints mean nothing to you, how it is entirely the artist that counts."
    "Well, not exactly… wait, you can go online?" Saint Cecilia glared at me as I responded, with the little sacristan in the booth at the entrance joining in, visually admonishing me for mumbling at the painted wall.
    "Of course I can. What, you think I live inside this fresco? The point is, Nicholas, how can you possibly say such things. Myself for example, I was painted by grumpy old Francesco Francia, in part at least. Some assistant painted my dress, in the next scene I'm by a completely different artist, and in the following yet another. What does that mean to you? The artist is just part of the story, you know. The artist isn't God."
    "I understand. Is that all?"
    "Absolutely not. Your journal… have you taken a look at your style?"
    "My style?"
    "Yes. How convoluted it is. So many commas, improper agreements, prolonged clauses. I believe one of your friends once described it as 'verbose'."
    "Well, perhaps I'm just verbose then. I can't help it. I write that way. I suppose I can try to reform a little bit, consult Fowler or something, but in the main I can't really change how I write. English is quite awkward when it comes to expressing difficult concepts, like Italy. At least I don't take myself too seriously."
    "You're so young, Nicholas. So very young, and you have so much to learn."
    "Why does everyone tell me that?" I responded to her as she shrugged, nonplussed, and returned to her important and perpetual business of accepting her fiancé Valerian's golden ring.