Harlan Ray dismissed modern culture as “a lot of gay shit” and longed for everyone to agree.
“You faggots ever heard of Buster Keaton,” he’d scream. “Son of a bitch wasn’t human, he was a refugee from the planet Krypton. Christ, everybody these days thinks they’re a genius when Hollywood should come with a disclaimer: Only Superhumans need apply!”
Harlan needed a protege, a successor, somebody who’d swallow his nuggets of wisdom. And the studio’s most promising wunderkind was the sullen and silent Frank Childs.
“I’ve got no love for drawing,” Frank had shrugged, “it pays the bills and I’ve got a knack for it, but it’s not like I’m curing cancer here.”
Harlan however, feeling that Frank needed an education took the lad to what he called the hall of heroes, a derelict music venue which in its day had seen Orson Welles storm upon its stage, along with Charlie Chaplin, and plenty of other greats.
“You know my philosophy,” Ray had said as he unlocked the front doors to the decaying hall.
Frank surmised it without blinking: “The first half of the twentieth century was the pinnacle of human accomplishments, if anything comes from that era, assume it’s great unless Harlan Ray says otherwise. If anything is modern, assume it’s crap unless Harlan Ray says otherwise.”
“Nah, nah,” Ray snapped back “you’ve gotta respect the greats kid, and remember, art isn’t a hobby or a job. It’s a vocation, a goddamn religion!”
And with that he unlocked the rusty bolts, pushed open the doors to the mausoleum with a groan. Frank though, winced at the stagnant smell of dust and dry rot.
The windows were either boarded up or broken, but the rays of the midday sun still poured into the empty hall. This once grand establishment felt like an odd cross between a church and a radio hall. Its’ white walls were stained, and the art deco organ had rusted considerably. As Frank worried if there was asbestos in the air, Harlan Ray fell to his knees and saw Shakespeare, Mozart, Laurence Olivier and a gazillion of his heroes’ ghosts standing upon the stage.
“Live through me!” he chanted “live through me!”
Frank raised his eyebrow at this display.
“We’re not regular humans Frank,” Harlan explained “We’re artists. Art has been stolen by completely ordinary people no different from your local milkman. You have the truly exceptional folk being shoved to the back of the bus!”
Frank made a pained expression “My Dad’s a doctor; he’s saved actual lives. As for us? We’re no Übermensch, we draw doodles!”
Harlan ripped open his shirt to reveal his hairy beer bellied chest: “Live through me! Live through me! Keaton, Chaplin, Lloyd, live through me, I am your vessel, I am your ambassador. I shall make art creative again! Live through me goddamnit!”
And Frank Childs looked up at the empty stage and shrugged, knowing that nobody gets into heaven on how good their art is.
