CHAPTER 379: CHAPTER 378: ART & CULTURE

The conversation around the Sterling table had carried the weight of ambition, loyalty, morality, and the invisible gears of power. Rex had held his ground, answering calmly even when the questions pressed deeper than surface banter. For a moment, silence hovered, as if the family had reached the edge of the debate. Glasses clinked faintly, the fire cracked in the hearth, and someone exhaled as though loosening the invisible collar of gravity.

It was Uncle Charles, the banker, who finally broke it. He leaned back in his chair with a dry smile.

"Well, that was heavier than I expected for dessert," he said. "We’ve dragged the poor boy through morality, loyalty, and the fate of nations. At this rate, Rex will think Sterling dinners are training grounds for diplomats."

That drew laughter, a soft ripple that relaxed the room. Aunt Miriam wagged her fork at Charles. "Oh, don’t be dramatic. It’s good to know he can spar with words, not just numbers."

"Still," another uncle chimed in, "why don’t we shift gears? We’ve had politics, economics, philosophy. Let’s move to something with less... gunpowder." He tapped his glass with a theatrical wink. "What about art? Culture. Something we can all enjoy without risking an argument over war or markets."

The family murmured in agreement, a collective pivot, like a ship changing direction after a stormy stretch of sea.

Rex caught the subtle glance exchanged between two of the cousins, probing yet curious. He realized they weren’t done testing him, they simply wanted to see another dimension of him. If politics measured his judgment, then culture would measure his taste.

Rex smiled faintly. "Art, then," he said. "That’s a battlefield of its own, just quieter."

The remark earned a round of chuckles.

Aunt Miriam leaned forward, her rings catching the light. "Tell me, Rex, do you actually follow art? Or are you going to confess that the last painting you saw was in a café menu?"

The younger cousins laughed at that, but Rex met her eyes calmly. His mind drifted, no, plunged, back to the System Space, where time stretched into what had felt like years. Endless halls, illuminated by strange celestial light, where he had stood before masters who existed only as echoes yet painted with immortal skill. Monet, with his soft brush and whispers of light. Dürer, precise as a mathematician. Michelangelo, who carved stone as though freeing angels trapped within. Rembrandt, who layered shadows until faces seemed to breathe. Van Gogh, wild with color, his hands trembling yet sure. And then the moderns: Amano’s ethereal dreamscapes, Rothko’s walls of color, Moebius’s infinite worlds, Tezuka’s bright storytelling lines.

He hadn’t just studied them. He had lived with them, worked under their eyes, been corrected, scolded, praised, and pushed. Months that were years.

He drew a breath and returned to the present table. "Actually," Rex said lightly, "I’ve spent more time with art than I usually admit. And I think the mistake most people make is treating art as decoration. It’s not. It’s memory. It’s rebellion. It’s the story of a civilization written without words."

The table stilled. Miriam tilted her head, intrigued. "That’s a bold claim. Go on."

Rex leaned back, not theatrical but thoughtful, as if speaking less to impress and more to explore. "Take Renaissance Italy. People think of it as an age of beauty, Michelangelo, da Vinci, Botticelli. But look closer. Those works weren’t just about beauty. They were weapons. Florence, Rome, Venice, they were competing. The patrons weren’t commissioning paintings because they wanted pretty ceilings. They wanted power etched into stone and pigment. They wanted the world to look at their city and believe it was chosen by God. Art was politics in another frame."

"True," murmured Uncle Charles, nodding despite himself. "The Medici didn’t exactly pay for frescos out of pure charity."

Rex continued, his voice steady. "And then take someone like Van Gogh. He didn’t paint for patrons, he painted because the world inside him was too loud. He wasn’t rich, wasn’t powerful. He sold one painting in his lifetime. Yet today? His colors hang everywhere, and his vision, mad, raw, unfiltered, outlived kings. That’s the other side of art. When it isn’t propaganda, it’s confession. A civilization’s collective diary."

Silence, but not the heavy silence from before. This was sharper, engaged.

One of the cousins, Julian, smirked, clearly competitive. "Alright then, professor. If art is confession or propaganda, what about modern stuff? Spray paint on walls, neon lights, those canvases with just one red square. Is that art too, or just laziness?"

Rex smiled. He had expected that. "I think the question isn’t whether it’s art, but whether it speaks. Rothko painted walls of color. People mocked him. But stand before one, and you’ll feel it, it’s like standing inside someone’s mood. Same with graffiti. When someone writes on a city wall, they’re declaring, ’I exist, I matter, I’ll leave a mark even if the city paints over me tomorrow.’ That’s rawer than most corporate-sponsored sculptures."

Julian leaned back, conceding but still smirking. "Not bad."

Miriam’s eyes glittered. "And what about literature, Rex? Since you seem to be climbing art’s ladder, do you read?"

He chuckled softly. "Too much. Literature’s the same story. Shakespeare wasn’t timeless because of poetry alone. He was timeless because he captured human contradictions, ambition, jealousy, love, betrayal. Dickens wasn’t just telling tales of orphans; he was punching Parliament in the face. And if you want to see the soul of a nation, read its novels. France has Hugo. Russia has Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. America has Twain, Morrison. Literature is how countries argue with themselves."

The eldest uncle, who had been quiet, finally spoke. His voice was gravelly, laced with dry humor. "And what of cinema? Surely you have thoughts there too. Or are you one of those who think movies are beneath the dignity of ’high art’?"

Rex’s lips curved. "Cinema is the cathedral of the twentieth century. Think about it. Cathedrals used to gather entire towns under stained glass. Today, movies gather millions in dark rooms under a screen of light. It’s the same ritual, people searching for meaning, emotion, transcendence, only the medium changed. If you want to know what a century dreamed about, watch its films."

That earned a genuine laugh from several around the table. "The boy’s a poet," one cousin said.

Rex shrugged modestly, but his mind was still humming with echoes of Monet’s advice about light, Van Gogh’s mad laugh when he mixed colors, Rembrandt’s stern corrections on shadow. He was drawing from that reservoir, a well invisible to them but real to him.

They pressed him further, flowing naturally from one art form to the next. Fashion, "Not just vanity," Rex explained, "but the armor of identity. Why do revolutionaries always change clothes first? Because style tells you who’s in charge." Theater, "The Greeks invented it not for fun, but to argue with their gods and each other." Music, "You want to track power shifts? Follow who funds the orchestras, then follow who fills the clubs."

Every answer he gave seemed to widen their eyes. Not because he was reciting facts, facts were cheap, but because he carried a perspective, a coherence that tied centuries of human expression into one living tapestry.

At one point, Miriam leaned back and said with a half-smile, "You really talk like someone twice your age. Where on earth did you pick all this up?"

Rex only sipped his wine and said lightly, "I pay attention."

But inside, he felt the weight of years spent in that timeless hall of the System, standing shoulder to shoulder with ghosts who had painted, sculpted, written, and sung long before him.

The Sterlings seemed almost relieved by the turn. Politics and morality had tested his judgment, but art revealed his soul, or at least what they thought was his soul. By the time dessert plates were cleared, the room carried a different energy. No longer skeptical interrogation, but curious warmth. They had glimpsed not only a mind that could argue about world orders but also one that could speak of beauty, tragedy, and the strangeness of being human.

It wasn’t just that they respected him more. They liked him more.

(End of Chapter)