The old king of Arturre was dying. The people kept silent vigil as he drew his last breaths. No artist put brush to canvas. No sculptor touched clay or stone. No writer put quill to page. No musician plucked a string or a sang even a solitary note. The hush of waiting could be felt in Arturre.
The king’s son, the prince and heir to the throne, paced outside his rooms. The reverent vigilance of the people of Arturre did not touch him. Though his father was in bed, nearing the final moments of his life, the prince’s thoughts were not with his father or the people. The prince’s thoughts were fixed on his throne, on his coronation, on his kingdom. Arturre was known throughout the realms for its art, music, literature, and great works. While other countries had wealthy patrons who paid for artists to produce their art, Arturre had no such patrons. The kingdom gave everyone equal opportunity to pursue their art. Every child old enough to hold a brush or pen, to pick up an instrument or hold a note, were given the space and time to do so. To explore, to play. And when they found their passions, they found a master under which to apprentice, to learn, to develop, to apply their skills. And the kingdom funded it all. No one went hungry. No one went homeless.
And the kingdom of Arturre was known for its art. But not for its kings. People in distant lands could name the great painters or sculptors, the writers or composers. But they did not know the name of the king. This angered the prince. This plagued the prince. This consumed the prince’s every waking thought. It was because of the kings of Arturre that those artists had studios and paints. It was because of the kings that those musicians had their concert halls and instruments. It was because of the kings that the kingdom of Arturre existed at all. And the world would know his name.
And so it was the king died. The people mourned the king in their own way, as they had for kings past. They made paintings and wrote songs. They put on plays that honored him for his guidance and leadership. That honored him for his wisdom and his generosity. They honored him for preserving the legacy and beauty of Arturre all the days of his life. And then, like all the kings of Arturre before him, the king was laid to rest and the art remained. Nearly before his father’s body was cold, the prince started to plan his coronation. The prince wanted songs and monuments. He wanted murals and plays. He wanted a celebration of such magnitude that all other art would pale in comparison. He wanted the celebration of art his father had just had, and he wanted it now. He gathered his advisors and the leaders of the guilds together and set forth his plans.
The guildmasters and advisors were confused, of course. No new ruler of Arturre had ever had a coronation. The prince, not even a king yet, had done nothing to warrant such a celebration. He had inspired no great works, had done no great deeds. They explained to him that no king had ever ordered such a thing. They wanted the art to be created for its own sake. They wanted the artists to be free to create their own works, to find their own inspiration. To experiment and search and play. Such was the power and brilliance of Arturre. Such was its legacy.
But the prince persisted. Just because no king had ever done so before, did not mean it wasn’t within his right as king to require it. The guildmasters and advisors looked at each but could not argue with their king. They started preparations for what promised to be the most magnificent, the most splendid ceremony that Arturre had ever seen. At first the people questioned the request of their king, and argued with the masters of their guilds. What has this princeling done to deserve songs? How could they make art about someone the people did not know? The prince did not inspire them.
But the guild leaders pushed them and said that if the new king wanted a grand coronation he would have it, because he was the king. So the people started working. At first it was slow, laborious, like coaxing water from stone. But eventually the artists and musicians found ways to engage and explore with the work, as they always had. The theme of beginnings and new journeys spoke to them. They wrote songs of births and blooms, they painted paintings of sunrises and first steps. The prince came to examine their progress and they presented it to him, proud of the work. The prince was incensed. How dare they liken him to an infant? How dare they suggest he was inexperienced or immature? He was their king! He decreed all their work be destroyed like the rubbish he saw it was. He ordered them to start again, but this time, paint him as their king. Portray him with the respect and honor he deserved.
The people started anew on art of their king. They painted him as a rugged warrior, bulging with rippling muscles and wielding a massive sword. They sculpted him with eyes of lightning and fair of flame, astride a ferocious, slavering beast. They wrote songs singing of deeds both great and impossible. They staged plays where he slew armies single-handedly and where he separated the land from the sea, and set the stars in the heavens. When they showed the prince what they had done, his eyes lit up. Yes, this was art. He commanded that his name be put to all of the works, because after all, if it was of him, then was it not his?
On the day of the coronation the people did not line the streets for his procession to the grand cathedral. The singers he had ordered to play, played the songs written about his exploits but no one came to hear. The murals and banners and statues and monuments of him went unwitnessed and unremarked upon as his small caravan marched through empty streets. The prince was outraged. After all he had done for them, this is how his people repaid him? In a fury he ordered the guildmasters and leaders of the kingdom to gather the people. The houses should be emptied and the streets filled. All must witness his ascension to the throne.
The guildmasters obeyed and forced the people to the streets. The prince started his procession again, now with an audience. The people stood around, gawking at the monuments and sculptures and paintings of this not-yet king. Paintings he claimed. Sculptures bearing his name. At halfway through the procession a voiced cried out “Art or king?!” The procession came to a halt and the prince demanded to know who spoke. Who interrupted his ceremony? Another voice took up the call, “Art or king?” Then another voice. Soon the entire population was chanting “Art or king?” The prince shouted, yelled, screamed to be heard over the throng, but the chants drowned him out. No one saw who started it, but a chunk of stone from one of the statues was broken off and thrown at the princeling. People raced to break off pieces of the statue and pummel the not-king with them. One struck his shoulder, another his chest. He ducked and hid, but the rain of stone, marble, and clay rained upon him, burying him alive. The people did not stop until every statue was torn down, every painting was ripped up, every mural broken apart.
When you visit Arturre, there is a monument in the center of the city, a pile of broken stone. The monument has no name, but if you ask the people will say, “That is the first and only work by our last king.”
