Marxism Concepts of Art | An Analysis

Marxism Concepts of Art | An Analysis The nineteenth century was significant in Europe because it spawned or brought to the forefront revolutionary new forms of culture and theology. Among these movements were feminism, Marxism, the romantic period of music, and the impressionist period of art. Marxism has been critically acclaimed for its adherence to the popular utopian traditions of past ages and its determination to exterminate the inequities of the feudal class system. Marxism was a nineteenth century behemoth, its shadow influencing not only social and political thought but also provoking minds around the world. Critics of ideologys influence on art harangue the latter as a restrictive form of interpretation, one whose hold over arts beholder evokes themes that override those intended by the artist. However, art created in the impressionist period was created on the basis of the artists perception, and if no one can recall exactly what the artist intended, then using ideologies of the time remains a logical basis o f interpretation. Marxism promotes the involvement of all aspects of society in its ideology. However, when used as an exclusive method of art, Marxism can be quickly dismissed as stringent and a useless art method. In his Theory and Philosophy of Art, Meyer Schapiro contends that ideology constricts the freedom of artistic expression. Schapiro insists that philosophers using ideologies in artistic interpretation forgo the artists rendering and draw their own conclusions, therein ignoring the prevailing themes and purposes behind the artists creation. Through intense speculation of an object, the philosopher has [deceived] himself in assertions which are not sustained by the picture itself but rather in his own social outlook (Schapiro 1994, p. 134). For example, Japanese aesthetics value the imperfect, almost deifying the worn and blemished. A rusty spade in a tool shed would be perceived by classical Japanese aesthetics as beautiful because of its natural state. The traditional Japanese artist would have painted the shed to exemplify its imperfections and the subtleties of its presentation. A Marxist contention might be that the artist presented the spade as a token of the working class, a tribute to the agrarian utopia sought after by many of the period. By making these assumptions, the individual perceiving the Japanese spade would be detracting from the paintings meaning; though agrarian utopia is a beautiful image, it is ultimately deviant from the artists purpose and casts the painting in a whole new light. Using a school of thought such as Marxism endeavors people to [imagine] everything and [project] it into the painting, causing them to experience both too little and too much in [their] contact with the work (Schapiro 1994, p. 138). Schapiro and his contemporaries are concerned with the nature of the work, not the beholders perception. Arts grandeur is in its presentation, which if misinterpreted bypasses the artists intentions, altering the state of art. Recurrent themes might be based on philosophy, but the concept of [the] metaphysical power of art remains a theoretical idea (Schapiro 1994, p. 139). It is irrelevant that there may exist a hidden message within the subject perceived. What is of consequence is rather what the object portrayed means to the artist. Projection and personal interpretation negates the fundamental aspect of the artists presence in the work, and metaphysical integration in interpretational method stints the potential of arts full meaning (Schapiro 1994, p 139). Marxism specifically denigrates the self in favor of the whole, therein detracting from art as a representation of the artist himself or herself. As a means of interpretation, Marxism is useless as the art becomes solely focused around the objective nature of the subject. Painters such as van Gogh and Monet did not popularize the impressionist movement because their objects were more true to reality than others of the age; they popularized the movement because their interpretations were revolutionary and unlike that of their contemporaries. In effect, all art becomes a piece from a self-portrait; the subject is turned to the spectator as a part of the artist, not an instrument of political ideology (Schapiro 1994, p. 140). Schapiro describes shoes as a recurrent theme in van Goghs paintings to solidify his argument. The focus of several paintings, van Goghs worn shoes are a portion of the self, a revealing theme (Schapiro 1994, p. 140). They do not signify the work ethic of a communist, nor does the weathered nature of the shoe imply the subject had anything to do with attaining an agrarian utopia. For van Gogh, the shoes were a memorable piece of his own life, a sacred relic (Schapiro 1994, p. 141). Paintings of the shoes were brilliant because of what they meant to van Gogh. The virtuosity of van Goghs style and presentation make him unique; shoes by themselves mean nothing without the artists rendering. What makes a painter unique is his or her ability to present him or herself, manifesting personality into unconventional objects in such a way that an audience can connect and relate to the emotion evoked. The object presented means nothing without the artists intimation. A shoe, for example, is mere ly a protective covering in the real world. It does not exist to testify to the greatness of Marxism and its superiority over other ideologies. In art, objects do not exist to signify metaphysical forms or ideas, but to serve the artists meanings. The efficacy with which an object portrays the artist is what makes it extraordinary. Theology is useless as an interpretive method of art history because of its constrictive nature on the purpose of art; Marxism is particularly inhibiting because of its emphasis on the nature of being and the individuals position in society. If a painter were to create a work solely to advertise Marxist doctrine, the artistic creation itself would be impeded. Practical aims, rules methods, [and] fixed notions of style hamper virtuosity and the artistic process (Schapiro 1994, p. 202). Schapiro continues, stating, the creation of art has rested on the activity of self-directed [people] who regard their work as a free expression of their natures (Schapiro 1994, p. 204). Ideologies are not naturally occurring in society as a whole; they are indoctrinated and therefore are alien concepts. Marxism is not a natural conclusion, but rather one that had to be indoctrinated into the bourgeois, who in turn had to give up their advantageous statuses in order to better society. Because Marxism is forced by nature, it cannot be a viable art method in Schapiros system of interpretation. Though Schapiros passion for the personal and physiognomic on behalf of the artist is commendable, it too easily dismisses the possibility that social ideology played a part in the artists choice of subjects (Schapiro 1994, p. 139). Marxism changed the way men and women viewed society, and hence altered individual perception. Empiricism, or the theory that all knowledge is based on experience, is a testament to artistic presentation. Theoretically speaking, van Gogh may have painted his shoes because he was an avowed Marxist and chose to present a commonplace object in a Marxist light. Those testifying otherwise can prove their points only by having known the artist themselves, or by proving through communications relayed by the artist suggesting the contrary. Marxism, like other ideologies, is not an impossible basis of inspiration. For example, the twentieth-century composer Dmitri Shostakovich chose to proclaim his disdain with Soviet Russia through music. Political ideologies suc h as Marxism are revolutionary because they alter perception and opinion. As an inspirational method, Marxism is very useful. Ideologies and social movements lend form and base to art; whether they positively or negatively affect an artist, ideologies are an inspirational basis for many works. Marxism does not necessarily diminish art as a form of self-portrait in inspirational form. It molds and manipulates the course of the art. Though it changes the direction of interpretation (possibly detracting from the artists meaning), it is feasible as part of the subject if determined to be a prevailing theme of the work in question. Schapiro describes the philosopher Martin Heidegger and his interpretation of a painting as an [illustration of] the nature of art as a disclosure of truth (Schapiro 1994, p. 135). Contrary to Schapiros contentions of arts theoretical metaphysical implications, Heidegger purports art is metaphysical in nature. The artist is therefore presenting the object from a different vantage. The nature of art is metaphysical in its individuality, so ideology is not to be dismissed as a viable method of art history. Marxism in particular has the capacity to be an effective method of art solely because of its paradigm shift in the concept of individuality. Marxism, like other ideologies, is an irrevocable aspect of society, especially in nineteenth century art. Society is part of what makes an artist individual; it is the lifeblood of creativity and influence. Movements such as impressionism are themselves fashioned by society and altered interpretations. Schapiros stance is that society is constraining and the ideologies of which it is comprised imperil [artistic] liberty (Schapiro 1994, p. 201). Marxism is only constraining, however, when applied to capitalist societies. It is impossible for a human being to be completely unbiased and unaffected by ideologies as every human being has some affiliation with a school of thought. Marxism has the ability to inspire just as much as it has the ability to constrict and limit artistic freedom. Though Heidegger may ignore what those shoes meant to van Gogh himself, he may have also suggested a new side of van Gogh, one that is revealed in a new light just as van Gogh presented shoes in a new light (Schapiro 1994, p. 147). Marxism further may serve as a basis of ideas and concepts. Schapiro himself admits, a disciplined classic style needs a source of ideas, a continuously renewed energy of concept ionotherwise [art] is a sterile routine (Schapiro 1994, p. 201). Ideology, by nature, is a set of conglomerated beliefs and observations. Why, then, does Schapiro assume it to such an inefficacy as a method of art history? Schapiros conclusions border on myopic as he fails to consider the possibility that ideologies can also serve as inspirations, as a possible source of ideas rather than the only source. All ideologies become constrictive if used exclusively. More constrictive on the artistic process is the elimination of ideology as a viable method; by consciously restraining interpretive vehicles, art is stinted and the liberty Schapiro so treasures becomes finite. As far as impressionism is concerned, Marxism is as effective as any other method of art history. The word impression refers to the objective, what the mind itself perceives. The very nature of impression is derived from the illusory rather than reality. Speculation, when observed within moderate means, is the purpose behind an object. Using an ideology such as Marxism does not impede interpretation so long as it is not used exclusively. Schapiro describes Heideggers speculative method as detracting and self-serving, purporting that he conjectures that his reader could imagine himself wearing [van Goghs] old leather shoes (Schapiro 1994, p. 149). The speculative approach to impressionism is its very basis. Had van Gogh intended to portray the shoes as part of his history, perhaps he would have painted himself wearing them. That he chose to focus on still life and not a self-portrait insinuates the possibility that van Gogh wanted to portray the shoes as open to outside interpretation as well. Marxist interpretations would not be indicative of useless method in the aforementioned perception so long as the interpretations outside the obvious are secondary in nature. To further his argument against ideologies such as Marxism as viable methods of art history, Schapiro addresses the opinions of French philosopher Denis Diderot. He describes Diderots preoccupation with freedom, considered in its inner and outer circumstances (Schapiro 1994, p. 201). If utilizing Marxism is a transgression on freedom, then it is a safe assumption to make that no artist will ever be free. All forms of thought are constrictions so long as they are regarded as limiting the abstract. Artistic production is reliant on the power of suggestion. The power to create is reliant on the power to envision, and the power to envision is subsequently dependent on the power of suggestion. Schapiro, however, takes Diderots stance that the artists inner freedom is the impulsive, unaccountable flow of the pencil an d brush, of images and ideas; verve, enthusiasm, spontaneity, and naturalness are its outward signs and without that flow, there is no authentic art (Schapiro 1994, p. 201). Marxism, therefore, would erstwhile be an obstacle in the artistic process. However, impulses are drawn from ideas, and spontaneity requires inspiration, both of which may be derived from ideologies. Schapiro supports this contention, writing that the conditions most favorable to the flow in art are not only a matter of temperament but are also social (Schapiro 1994, p. 201). Art history reveals that social ideologies such as Marxism are not only viable methods, they are also intrinsic in the creation of art. Diderot anticipated a dilemma of artists: they wish to be free creators, unconfined by any goal external to art but also wish to participate in the most advanced consciousness of their society and to influence it by their work (Schapiro 1994, p. 207). If ever there was an ideology that encapsulated total social involvement, it was Marxism. So if artists participate in the most advanced consciousness of their society, how can they be truly free by Schapiros standards? Is it because they have made a conscious decision? Their choices, however, are influenced by their desire to be a part of something larger. In effect, they are limited by their desires, which are concrete aims and goals. Marxisms all-encompassing doctrines are a reflection of scientific method, designed with multiple factors and social tenets in mind. Stephen Eisenman presents Marxism as a useful method of art in his Nineteenth Century Art, presenting evidence that certain critics consider the scholarly (scientific) method and subject matter [of art] perfectly merged (Eisenman 1994, p. 9). Marxism is based on a single concept: total egalitarianism. To serve that end, Marxism lists several factors and instructions. Art is similar, centered on a singular subject or theme. Different details delineate and instigate thought on the aforementioned subject, drawing further parallels between art and ideology. Eisenman furthers his contentions opposite that of Schapiro by stating outright how empiricism has dominated studies of nineteenth century art but has rarely been explicitly acknowledged as a methodology, whether inspirational or interpretive in nature (Eisenman 1994, p. 10). In defining true expression, many scholars reject the purist tyranny of abstract and absolutist systems such as those defined previously by Schapiro, insisting t hat art historians should be as flexible, various, and comprehensive as possible in their approaches, and be willing to consider anything from the history technology to the abiding mysteries of genius and psychology as potentially illuminating their ever more vast subject (Eisenman 1994, p. 10). Therefore, Eisenman counters critics who lambast ideologies as limiting, stating that by closing interpretive doors on art methods, one further inhibits the freedom of expression. Separating artists from society alienates the artist from humanity, therein isolating the artist as potentially self-deprecating. Diderots dilemma of the artist seeking to be creatively free and yet still a driving force of society is a paradoxical query answered by Eisenmans assertions in favor of Marxism. Eisenman supports the statement that art history itself, especially art history of the nineteenth century, has been significantly transformed by the prevailing attitudes of radical scholars; Marxist philosophy has played a signal role in overturning the formerly prevailing confidence that art history could be told as a straightforward, descriptive narrative independent of the interests, politics, gender, or ideology of artists, audiences, and critics (Eisenman 1994, p. 10). The aspects listed by Eisenman encapsulate what drives artists to create. Marx postulates that while humans by their nature as humans have senses and perceptions, these are rude and unformed in the absence of their specific development and cultivation, which only occurs historically (Eisenman 1994, p. 11). In the Marxist school of thought, Diderots emphasis on creative freedom still remains paramount to artistic creation. However, Marx stipulates that the abstract is only given form by prevailing attitudes of the day. Eisenman supports Marxism as a method of art, writing, all the senses are differently developed according to the nature of the particular society in which the person lives: a capitalist society in which the sense of having dominates is clearly different in its sensual or perceptual capacities from a feudal or Communist society which does not subscribe to the concept of private property (Eisenman 1994, p.11). Ultimately, art methods are only viable given the freedom of interpretation they allow. Marxism is viable because it promotes inspiration on part of the artist, as well as affording an observing art beholder a unique avenue of interpretation. The only caveat to employing ideology as a method of art is its constrictive nature. When applied exclusively, any single art method exudes glaring inefficacy in the face of constricted artistic freedom. However, the singling of any art method as a useless art method lends itself to the practice of restriction, defeating the requisite observation of creative freedom, whether the artist or the one perceiving art practices that freedom. Marxism, in turn, is just as useful an art method as any other ideology, so long as it is utilized as one possible perception among many. Marx argued, the cultivation of senseswhether in the form of art, music, or literaturein its turn plays a significant role in the historical unfolding of a society, and it is an untenable fact that history plays a part in shaping art, whether in the form of ideology or any other aspect of humanity (Eisenman 1994, p. 11).

Portraying A Scene from Hamlet Essay

Hamlet the melancholy tale of the Prince of Denmark has some of the most difficult characters to portray on stage. Caught in the machinations of a scheming Claudius and a betraying mother, the dilemmas of Hamlet’s character are the result of his reflective nature rendering him susceptible to shifting moods (Shakespeare, 1982). Thus he may appear indecisive at times while rash and impulsive at others. Yet the key driver of the plot is the intrigues of Claudius the main antagonist who has acquired the throne of Denmark after death of his elder brother. Claudius has another lust that for Gertrude, Hamlet’s mother and very shrewdly exploits her weak character. The scheming of Claudius is central to this theme and Act I, Scene II is most elucidative in this respect. The Scene will connect with Act I, Scene I, where Hamlet’s friends have seen the ghost of his father looming in the darkness. Thus the lighting will have to denote a dark background initially increasing gradually as Claudius makes his entry into the court. Claudius is to be shown in a garrulous mood, indicating his triumph of claiming the throne as well as the hand of the Queen, Gertrude. His dress, demeanor and outlook will be positive and endearing to the audience. Gertrude on the other hand though dressed in regal clothes will denote a melancholy strain in her overall attire, voice and will be shown seeking reassurance in Claudius. Hamlet is still in mourning and his mood will be reflected in the dress to make it very obvious to the audience. The speech by Claudius to the courtiers will connect him with the audience. Thus all lights will have to be focused on him sitting on the throne which will be raised on a pedestal. Gertrude sitting beside him will be at a lower level and a third level will be made for Hamlet. The courtiers will be seated on each side in two to three rows leaving the central space for entry and exit. As Claudius explains to the courtiers the background of his decision to be crowned and marriage to Gertrude, the stage will be brightly lit and lights will on him and Gertrude, shifting focus based on emphasis of his speech. A huge pictorial of the kingdom of Denmark will be in the background, which will be computer simulated towards which the King will gesticulate while explaining his rationale of saving the country. Appropriate lighting from the rear will denote gloom as Claudius explains his reason and brightness after his ascending the throne. Hamlet will enter late in the Scene, slouching to his seat making his mood absolutely evident to the King as well as his mother. This will also set the stage for Claudius’s dialogue explaining his position. His proposal for celebrations and the King’s Rouse will be denoted through background sounds of festivity. As the King and Queen leave the stage, the lighting will be subtly subdued to represent the gloom in Hamlet’s mind. Against this low lights and sounds of celebrations in distance, the sorrow pervading Hamlet’s mind can be effectively portrayed. As Horatio enters, slowly Hamlet will return to reality and prospects of meeting his father’s soul will drive away his gloom. Here again the effects of lighting and sound will be used to accentuate the variation in disposition brought about after Horatio’s declaration of having seen the ghost. As Horatio explains this on the side wings, movement of a ghost will be shown with Hamlet attempting to contact it, thereby showing his attachment to his father’s spirit as well as a sign of hope. At this time the stage will be fully lit while the sound of celebrations in the distance will also increase to indicate that now Hamlet was also full of hope. Coming after this is Scene III which introduces, Hamlet’s love Ophelia. This is ideally situated by Shakespeare, creating anxiety in the audience and increasing hope in Hamlet before the play moves on to Scene IV where Hamlet actually goes in search of the spirit with Horatio. The impatience of the scheming Claudius, the failings of Gertrude and the dilemma of Hamlet in Act I Scene II, sets the stage for unfolding of the plot ahead. The portrayal has to denote transformation from the dark moments of the ghost of King Hamlet in Act I Scene I and the cheery atmosphere portrayed by Claudius leading to the King’s Rouse. To a modern audience, witness to breakdown of the institution of marriage, Claudius’s wedding to Gertrude so soon after the death of her previous husband may not appear as incredulous as it had been to the courtiers of Denmark. However still the depiction will have to be provided necessary back up through background sound, lights and skillful use of backdrop. Reference: 1. Shakespeare, William. (1982). Four Great Tragedies. Revised Edition. New York: Signet Classics.

A Game of Thrones Chapter Forty

Catelyn The eastern sky was rose and gold as the sun broke over the Vale of Arryn. Catelyn Stark watched the light spread, her hands resting on the delicate carved stone of the balustrade outside her window. Below her the world turned from black to indigo to green as dawn crept across fields and forests. Pale white mists rose off Alyssa's Tears, where the ghost waters plunged over the shoulder of the mountain to begin their long tumble down the face of the Giant's Lance. Catelyn could feel the faint touch of spray on her face. Alyssa Arryn had seen her husband, her brothers, and all her children slain, and yet in life she had never shed a tear. So in death, the gods had decreed that she would know no rest until her weeping watered the black earth of the Vale, where the men she had loved were buried. Alyssa had been dead six thousand years now, and still no drop of the torrent had ever reached the valley floor far below. Catelyn wondered how large a waterfall her own tears would make when she died. â€Å"Tell me the rest of it,† she said. â€Å"The Kingslayer is massing a host at Casterly Rock,† Ser Rodrik Cassel answered from the room behind her. â€Å"Your brother writes that he has sent riders to the Rock, demanding that Lord Tywin proclaim his intent, but he has had no answer. Edmure has commanded Lord Vance and Lord Piper to guard the pass below the Golden Tooth. He vows to you that he will yield no foot of Tully land without first watering it with Lannister blood.† Catelyn turned away from the sunrise. Its beauty did little to lighten her mood; it seemed cruel for a day to dawn so fair and end so foul as this one promised to. â€Å"Edmure has sent riders and made vows,† she said, â€Å"but Edmure is not the Lord of Riverrun. What of my lord father?† â€Å"The message made no mention of Lord Hoster, my lady.† Ser Rodrik tugged at his whiskers. They had grown in white as snow and bristly as a thornbush while he was recovering from his wounds; he looked almost himself again. â€Å"My father would not have given the defense of Riverrun over to Edmure unless he was very sick,† she said, worried. â€Å"I should have been woken as soon as this bird arrived.† â€Å"Your lady sister thought it better to let you sleep, Maester Colemon told me.† â€Å"I should have been woken,† she insisted. â€Å"The maester tells me your sister planned to speak with you after the combat,† Ser Rodrik said. â€Å"Then she still plans to go through with this mummer's farce?† Catelyn grimaced. â€Å"The dwarf has played her like a set of pipes, and she is too deaf to hear the tune. Whatever happens this morning, Ser Rodrik, it is past time we took our leave. My place is at Winterfell with my sons. If you are strong enough to travel, I shall ask Lysa for an escort to see us to Gulltown. We can take ship from there.† â€Å"Another ship?† Ser Rodrik looked a shade green, yet he managed not to shudder. â€Å"As you say, my lady.† The old knight waited outside her door as Catelyn summoned the servants Lysa had given her. If she spoke to her sister before the duel, perhaps she could change her mind, she thought as they dressed her. Lysa's policies varied with her moods, and her moods changed hourly. The shy girl she had known at Riverrun had grown into a woman who was by turns proud, fearful, cruel, dreamy, reckless, timid, stubborn, vain, and, above all, inconstant. When that vile turnkey of hers had come crawling to tell them that Tyrion Lannister wished to confess, Catelyn had urged Lysa to have the dwarf brought to them privately, but no, nothing would do but that her sister must make a show of him before half the Vale. And now this . . . â€Å"Lannister is my prisoner,† she told Ser Rodrik as they descended the tower stairs and made their way through the Eyrie's cold white halls. Catelyn wore plain grey wool with a silvered belt. â€Å"My sister must be reminded of that.† At the doors to Lysa's apartments, they met her uncle storming out. â€Å"Going to join the fool's festival?† Ser Brynden snapped. â€Å"I'd tell you to slap some sense into your sister, if I thought it would do any good, but you'd only bruise your hand.† â€Å"There was a bird from Riverrun,† Catelyn began, â€Å"a letter from Edmure . . . â€Å" â€Å"I know, child.† The black fish that fastened his cloak was Brynden's only concession to ornament. â€Å"I had to hear it from Maester Colemon. I asked your sister for leave to take a thousand seasoned men and ride for Riverrun with all haste. Do you know what she told me? The Vale cannot spare a thousand swords, nor even one, Uncle, she said. You are the Knight of the Gate. Your place is here.† A gust of childish laughter drifted through the open doors behind him, and her uncle glanced darkly over his shoulder. â€Å"Well, I told her she could bloody well find herself a new Knight of the Gate. Black fish or no, I am still a Tully. I shall leave for Riverrun by evenfall.† Catelyn could not pretend to surprise. â€Å"Alone? You know as well as I that you will never survive the high road. Ser Rodrik and I are returning to Winterfell. Come with us, Uncle. I will give you your thousand men. Riverrun will not fight alone.† Brynden thought a moment, then nodded a brusque agreement. â€Å"As you say. It's the long way home, but I'm more like to get there. I'll wait for you below.† He went striding off, his cloak swirling behind him. Catelyn exchanged a look with Ser Rodrik. They went through the doors to the high, nervous sound of a child's giggles. Lysa's apartments opened over a small garden, a circle of dirt and grass planted with blue flowers and ringed on all sides by tall white towers. The builders had intended it as a godswood, but the Eyrie rested on the hard stone of the mountain, and no matter how much soil was hauled up from the Vale, they could not get a weirwood to take root here. So the Lords of the Eyrie planted grass and scattered statuary amidst low, flowering shrubs. It was there the two champions would meet to place their lives, and that of Tyrion Lannister, into the hands of the gods. Lysa, freshly scrubbed and garbed in cream velvet with a rope of sapphires and moonstones around her milk-white neck, was holding court on the terrace overlooking the scene of the combat, surrounded by her knights, retainers, and lords high and low. Most of them still hoped to wed her, bed her, and rule the Vale of Arryn by her side. From what Catelyn had seen during her stay at the Eyrie, it was a vain hope. A wooden platform had been built to elevate Robert's chair; there the Lord of the Eyrie sat, giggling and clapping his hands as a humpbacked puppeteer in blue-and-white motley made two wooden knights hack and slash at each other. Pitchers of thick cream and baskets of blackberries had been set out, and the guests were sipping a sweet orange-scented wine from engraved silver cups. A fool's festival, Brynden had called it, and small wonder. Across the terrace, Lysa laughed gaily at some jest of Lord Hunter's, and nibbled a blackberry from the point of Ser Lyn Corbray's dagger. They were the suitors who stood highest in Lysa's favor . . . today, at least. Catelyn would have been hard-pressed to say which man was more unsuitable. Eon Hunter was even older than Jon Arryn had been, half-crippled by gout, and cursed with three quarrelsome sons, each more grasping than the last. Ser Lyn was a different sort of folly; lean and handsome, heir to an ancient but impoverished house, but vain, reckless, hot-tempered . . . and, it was whispered, notoriously uninterested in the intimate charms of women. When Lysa espied Catelyn, she welcomed her with a sisterly embrace and a moist kiss on the cheek. â€Å"Isn't it a lovely morning? The gods are smiling on us. Do try a cup of the wine, sweet sister. Lord Hunter was kind enough to send for it, from his own cellars.† â€Å"Thank you, no. Lysa, we must talk.† â€Å"After,† her sister promised, already beginning to turn away from her. â€Å"Now.† Catelyn spoke more loudly than she'd intended. Men were turning to look. â€Å"Lysa, you cannot mean to go ahead with this folly. Alive, the Imp has value. Dead, he is only food for crows. And if his champion should prevail here—† â€Å"Small chance of that, my lady,† Lord Hunter assured her, patting her shoulder with a liver-spotted hand. â€Å"Ser Vardis is a doughty fighter. He will make short work of the sellsword.† â€Å"Will he, my lord?† Catelyn said coolly. â€Å"I wonder.† She had seen Bronn fight on the high road; it was no accident that he had survived the journey while other men had died. He moved like a panther, and that ugly sword of his seemed a part of his arm. Lysa's suitors were gathering around them like bees round a blossom. â€Å"Women understand little of these things,† Ser Morton Waynwood said. â€Å"Ser Vardis is a knight, sweet lady. This other fellow, well, his sort are all cowards at heart. Useful enough in a battle, with thousands of their fellows around them, but stand them up alone and the manhood leaks right out of them.† â€Å"Say you have the truth of it, then,† Catelyn said with a courtesy that made her mouth ache. â€Å"What will we gain by the dwarf's death? Do you imagine that Jaime will care a fig that we gave his brother a trial before we flung him off a mountain?† â€Å"Behead the man,† Ser Lyn Corbray suggested. â€Å"When the Kingslayer receives the Imp's head, it will be a warning to him,† Lysa gave an impatient shake of her waist-long auburn hair. â€Å"Lord Robert wants to see him fly,† she said, as if that settled the matter. â€Å"And the Imp has only himself to blame. It was he who demanded a trial by combat.† â€Å"Lady Lysa had no honorable way to deny him, even if she'd wished to,† Lord Hunter intoned ponderously. Ignoring them all, Catelyn turned all her force on her sister. â€Å"I remind you, Tyrion Lannister is my prisoner.† â€Å"And I remind you, the dwarf murdered my lord husband!† Her voice rose. â€Å"He poisoned the Hand of the King and left my sweet baby fatherless, and now I mean to see him pay!† Whirling, her skirts swinging around her, Lysa stalked across the terrace. Ser Lyn and Ser Morton and the other suitors excused themselves with cool nods and trailed after her. â€Å"Do you think he did?† Ser Rodrik asked her quietly when they were alone again. â€Å"Murder Lord Jon, that is? The Imp still denies it, and most fiercely . . . â€Å" â€Å"I believe the Lannisters murdered Lord Arryn,† Catelyn replied, â€Å"but whether it was Tyrion, or Ser Jaime, or the queen, or all of them together, I could not begin to say.† Lysa had named Cersei in the letter she had sent to Winterfell, but now she seemed certain that Tyrion was the killer . . . perhaps because the dwarf was here, while the queen was safe behind the walls of the Red Keep, hundreds of leagues to the south. Catelyn almost wished she had burned her sister's letter before reading it. Ser Rodrik tugged at his whiskers. â€Å"Poison, well . . . that could be the dwarf's work, true enough. Or Cersei's. It's said poison is a woman's weapon, begging your pardons, my lady. The Kingslayer, now . . . I have no great liking for the man, but he's not the sort. Too fond of the sight of blood on that golden sword of his. Was it poison, my lady?† Catelyn frowned, vaguely uneasy. â€Å"How else could they make it look a natural death?† Behind her, Lord Robert shrieked with delight as one of the puppet knights sliced the other in half, spilling a flood of red sawdust onto the terrace. She glanced at her nephew and sighed. â€Å"The boy is utterly without discipline. He will never be strong enough to rule unless he is taken away from his mother for a time.† â€Å"His lord father agreed with you,† said a voice at her elbow. She turned to behold Maester Colemon, a cup of wine in his hand. â€Å"He was planning to send the boy to Dragonstone for fostering, you know . . . oh, but I'm speaking out of turn.† The apple of his throat bobbed anxiously beneath the loose maester's chain. â€Å"I fear I've had too much of Lord Hunter's excellent wine. The prospect of bloodshed has my nerves all a-fray . . . â€Å" â€Å"You are mistaken, Maester,† Catelyn said. â€Å"It was Casterly Rock, not Dragonstone, and those arrangements were made after the Hand's death, without my sister's consent.† The maester's head jerked so vigorously at the end of his absurdly long neck that he looked half a puppet himself. â€Å"No, begging your forgiveness, my lady, but it was Lord Jon who—† A bell tolled loudly below them. High lords and serving girls alike broke off what they were doing and moved to the balustrade. Below, two guardsmen in sky-blue cloaks led forth Tyrion Lannister. The Eyrie's plump septon escorted him to the statue in the center of the garden, a weeping woman carved in veined white marble, no doubt meant to be Alyssa. â€Å"The bad little man,† Lord Robert said, giggling. â€Å"Mother, can I make him fly? I want to see him fly.† â€Å"Later, my sweet baby,† Lysa promised him. â€Å"Trial first,† drawled Ser Lyn Corbray, â€Å"then execution.† A moment later the two champions appeared from opposite sides of the garden. The knight was attended by two young squires, the sellsword by the Eyrie's master-at-arms. Ser Vardis Egen was steel from head to heel, encased in heavy plate armor over mail and padded surcoat. Large circular rondels, enameled cream-and-blue in the moon-and-falcon sigil of House Arryn, protected the vulnerable juncture of arm and breast. A skirt of lobstered metal covered him from waist to midthigh, while a solid gorget encircled his throat. Falcon's wings sprouted from the temples of his helm, and his visor was a pointed metal beak with a narrow slit for vision. Bronn was so lightly armored he looked almost naked beside the knight. He wore only a shirt of black oiled ringmail over boiled leather, a round steel halfhelm with a noseguard, and a mail coif. High leather boots with steel shinguards gave some protection to his legs, and discs of black iron were sewn into the fingers of his gloves. Yet Catelyn noted that the sellsword stood half a hand taller than his foe, with a longer reach . . . and Bronn was fifteen years younger, if she was any judge. They knelt in the grass beneath the weeping woman, facing each other, with Lannister between them. The septon removed a faceted crystal sphere from the soft cloth bag at his waist. He lifted it high above his head, and the light shattered. Rainbows danced across the Imp's face. In a high, solemn, singsong voice, the septon asked the gods to look down and bear witness, to find the truth in this man's soul, to grant him life and freedom if he was innocent, death if he was guilty. His voice echoed off the surrounding towers. When the last echo had died away, the septon lowered his crystal and made a hasty departure. Tyrion leaned over and whispered something in Bronn's ear before the guardsmen led him away. The sellsword rose laughing and brushed a blade of grass from his knee. Robert Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and Defender of the Vale, was fidgeting impatiently in his elevated chair. â€Å"When are they going to fight?† he asked plaintively. Ser Vardis was helped back to his feet by one of his squires. The other brought him a triangular shield almost four feet tall, heavy oak dotted with iron studs. They strapped it to his left forearm. When Lysa's master-at-arms offered Bronn a similar shield, the sellsword spat and waved it away. Three days growth of coarse black beard covered his jaw and cheeks, but if he did not shave it was not for want of a razor; the edge of his sword had the dangerous glimmer of steel that had been honed every day for hours, until it was too sharp to touch. Ser Vardis held out a gauntleted hand, and his squire placed a handsome double-edged longsword in his grasp. The blade was engraved with a delicate silver tracery of a mountain sky; its pommel was a falcon's head, its crossguard fashioned into the shape of wings. â€Å"I had that sword crafted for Jon in King's Landing,† Lysa told her guests proudly as they watched Ser Vardis try a practice cut. â€Å"He wore it whenever he sat the Iron Throne in King Robert's place. Isn't it a lovely thing? I thought it only fitting that our champion avenge Jon with his own blade.† The engraved silver blade was beautiful beyond a doubt, but it seemed to Catelyn that Ser Vardis might have been more comfortable with his own sword. Yet she said nothing; she was weary of futile arguments with her sister. â€Å"Make them fight!† Lord Robert called out. Ser Vardis faced the Lord of the Eyrie and lifted his sword in salute. â€Å"For the Eyrie and the Vale!† Tyrion Lannister had been seated on a balcony across the garden, flanked by his guards. It was to him that Bronn turned with a cursory salute. â€Å"They await your command,† Lady Lysa said to her lord son. â€Å"Fight!† the boy screamed, his arms trembling as they clutched at his chair. Ser Vardis swiveled, bringing up his heavy shield. Bronn turned to face him. Their swords rang together, once, twice, a testing. The sellsword backed off a step. The knight came after, holding his shield before him. He tried a slash, but Bronn jerked back, just out of reach, and the silver blade cut only air. Bronn circled to his right. Ser Vardis turned to follow, keeping his shield between them. The knight pressed forward, placing each foot carefully on the uneven ground. The sellsword gave way, a faint smile playing over his lips. Ser Vardis attacked, slashing, but Bronn leapt away from him, hopping lightly over a low, moss-covered stone. Now the sellsword circled left, away from the shield, toward the knight's unprotected side. Ser Vardis tried a hack at his legs, but he did not have the reach. Bronn danced farther to his left. Ser Vardis turned in place. â€Å"The man is craven,† Lord Hunter declared. â€Å"Stand and fight, coward! † Other voices echoed the sentiment. Catelyn looked to Ser Rodrik. Her master-at-arms gave a curt shake of his head. â€Å"He wants to make Ser Vardis chase him. The weight of armor and shield will tire even the strongest man.† She had seen men practice at their swordplay near every day of her life, had viewed half a hundred tourneys in her time, but this was something different and deadlier: a dance where the smallest misstep meant death. And as she watched, the memory of another duel in another time came back to Catelyn Stark, as vivid as if it had been yesterday. They met in the lower bailey of Riverrun. When Brandon saw that Petyr wore only helm and breastplate and mail, he took off most of his armor. Petyr had begged her for a favor he might wear, but she had turned him away. Her lord father promised her to Brandon Stark, and so it was to him that she gave her token, a pale blue handscarf she had embroidered with the leaping trout of Riverrun. As she pressed it into his hand, she pleaded with him. â€Å"He is only a foolish boy, but I have loved him like a brother. It would grieve me to see him die.† And her betrothed looked at her with the cool grey eyes of a Stark and promised to spare the boy who loved her. That fight was over almost as soon as it began. Brandon was a man grown, and he drove Littlefinger all the way across the bailey and down the water stair, raining steel on him with every step, until the boy was staggering and bleeding from a dozen wounds. â€Å"Yield!† he called, more than once, but Petyr would only shake his head and fight on, grimly. When the river was lapping at their ankles, Brandon finally ended it, with a brutal backhand cut that bit through Petyr's rings and leather into the soft flesh below the ribs, so deep that Catelyn was certain that the wound was mortal. He looked at her as he fell and murmured â€Å"Cat† as the bright blood came flowing out between his mailed fingers. She thought she had forgotten that. That was the last time she had seen his face . . . until the day she was brought before him in King's Landing. A fortnight passed before Littlefinger was strong enough to leave Riverrun, but her lord father forbade her to visit him in the tower where he lay abed. Lysa helped their maester nurse him; she had been softer and shyer in those days. Edmure had called on him as well, but Petyr had sent him away. Her brother had acted as Brandon's squire at the duel, and Littlefinger would not forgive that. As soon as he was strong enough to be moved, Lord Hoster Tully sent Petyr Baelish away in a closed litter, to finish his healing on the Fingers, upon the windswept jut of rock where he'd been born. The ringing clash of steel on steel jarred Catelyn back to the present. Ser Vardis was coming hard at Bronn, driving into him with shield and sword. The sellsword scrambled backward, checking each blow, stepping lithely over rock and root, his eyes never leaving his foe. He was quicker, Catelyn saw; the knight's silvered sword never came near to touching him, but his own ugly grey blade hacked a notch from Ser Vardis's shoulder plate. The brief flurry of fighting ended as swiftly as it had begun when Bronn sidestepped and slid behind the statue of the weeping woman. Ser Vardis lunged at where he had been, striking a spark off the pale marble of Alyssa's thigh. â€Å"They're not fighting good, Mother,† the Lord of the Eyrie complained. â€Å"I want them to fight.† â€Å"They will, sweet baby,† his mother soothed him. â€Å"The sellsword can't run all day.† Some of the lords on Lysa's terrace were making wry jests as they refilled their wine cups, but across the garden, Tyrion Lannister's mismatched eyes watched the champions dance as if there were nothing else in the world. Bronn came out from behind the statue hard and fast, still moving left, aiming a two-handed cut at the knight's unshielded right side. Ser Vardis blocked, but clumsily, and the sellsword's blade flashed upward at his head. Metal rang, and a falcon's wing collapsed with a crunch. Ser Vardis took a half step back to brace himself, raised his shield. Oak chips flew as Bronn's sword hacked at the wooden wall. The sellsword stepped left again, away from the shield, and caught Ser Vardis across the stomach, the razor edge of his blade leaving a bright gash when it bit into the knight's plate. Ser Vardis drove forward off his back foot, his own silver blade descending in a savage arc. Bronn slammed it aside and danced away. The knight crashed into the weeping woman, rocking her on her plinth. Staggered, he stepped backward, his head turning this way and that as he searched for his foe. The slit visor of his helm narrowed his vision. â€Å"Behind you, ser!† Lord Hunter shouted, too late. Bronn brought his sword down with both hands, catching Ser Vardis in the elbow of his sword arm. The thin lobstered metal that protected the joint crunched. The knight grunted, turning, wrenching his weapon up. This time Bronn stood his ground. The swords flew at each other, and their steel song filled the garden and rang off the white towers of the Eyrie. â€Å"Ser Vardis is hurt,† Ser Rodrik said, his voice grave. Catelyn did not need to be told; she had eyes, she could see the bright finger of blood running along the knight's forearm, the wetness inside the elbow joint. Every parry was a little slower and a little lower than the one before. Ser Vardis turned his side to his foe, trying to use his shield to block instead, but Bronn slid around him, quick as a cat. The sellsword seemed to be getting stronger. His cuts were leaving their marks now. Deep shiny gashes gleamed all over the knight's armor, on his right thigh, his beaked visor, crossing on his breastplate, a long one along the front of his gorget. The moon-and-falcon rondel over Ser Vardis's right arm was sheared clean in half, hanging by its strap. They could hear his labored breath, rattling through the air holes in his visor. Blind with arrogance as they were, even the knights and lords of the Vale could see what was happening below them, yet her sister could not. â€Å"Enough, Ser Vardis!† Lady Lysa called down. â€Å"Finish him now, my baby is growing tired.† And it must be said of Ser Vardis Egen that he was true to his lady's command, even to the last. One moment he was reeling backward, half-crouched behind his scarred shield; the next he charged. The sudden bull rush caught Bronn off balance. Ser Vardis crashed into him and slammed the lip of his shield into the sellsword's face. Almost, almost, Bronn lost his feet . . . he staggered back, tripped over a rock, and caught hold of the weeping woman to keep his balance. Throwing aside his shield, Ser Vardis lurched after him, using both hands to raise his sword. His right arm was blood from elbow to fingers now, yet his last desperate blow would have opened Bronn from neck to navel . . . if the sellsword had stood to receive it. But Bronn jerked back. Jon Arryn's beautiful engraved silver sword glanced off the marble elbow of the weeping woman and snapped clean a third of the way up the blade. Bronn put his shoulder into the statue's back. The weathered likeness of Alyssa Arryn tottered and fell with a great crash, and Ser Vardis Egen went down beneath her. Bronn was on him in a heartbeat, kicking what was left of his shattered rondel aside to expose the weak spot between arm and breastplate. Ser Vardis was lying on his side, pinned beneath the broken torso of the weeping woman. Catelyn heard the knight groan as the sellsword lifted his blade with both hands and drove it down and in with all his weight behind it, under the arm and through the ribs. Ser Vardis Egen shuddered and lay still. Silence hung over the Eyrie. Bronn yanked off his halfhelm and let it fall to the grass. His lip was smashed and bloody where the shield had caught him, and his coal-black hair was soaked with sweat. He spit out a broken tooth. â€Å"Is it over, Mother?† the Lord of the Eyrie asked. No, Catelyn wanted to tell him, it's only now beginning. â€Å"Yes,† Lysa said glumly, her voice as cold and dead as the captain of her guard. â€Å"Can I make the little man fly now?† Across the garden, Tyrion Lannister got to his feet. â€Å"Not this little man,† he said. â€Å"This little man is going down in the turnip hoist, thank you very much.† â€Å"You presume—† Lysa began. â€Å"I presume that House Arryn remembers its own words,† the Imp said. â€Å"As High as Honor.† â€Å"You promised I could make him fly,† the Lord of the Eyrie screamed at his mother. He began to shake. Lady Lysa's face was flushed with fury. â€Å"The gods have seen fit to proclaim him innocent, child. We have no choice but to free him.† She lifted her voice. â€Å"Guards. Take my lord of Lannister and his . . . creature here out of my sight. Escort them to the Bloody Gate and set them free. See that they have horses and supplies sufficient to reach the Trident, and make certain all their goods and weapons are returned to them. They shall need them on the high road.† â€Å"The high road,† Tyrion Lannister said. Lysa allowed herself a faint, satisfied smile. It was another sort of death sentence, Catelyn realized. Tyrion Lannister must know that as well. Yet the dwarf favored Lady Arryn with a mocking bow. â€Å"As you command, my lady,† he said. â€Å"I believe we know the way.†

The Conflict Of The United States - 855 Words

The definition of genocide must of recently changed without many individuals being aware, unless the current ongoing pertinent issue did not want to be addressed in the twenty-first century. In the largest country in Africa, it is unimaginable that a genocide conducted by their government continues while the rest of the world does nothing. The largest country in Africa is Sudan, which is located on the northeastern side of Africa. The western region of Sudan is the primary focus, Darfur. This region of Sudan has experienced for years a consistent war that overtime has become forgotten. In the twenty-first century, it is difficult to realize that an actual genocide is happening. The individuals in this region are experiencing a harsh and difficult life that begin in the year of 2003. Given, the conflict of Darfur began in the year of 2003 involving over 300,00 people being murdered and more then two million being displaced. 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