01-15-2024, 04:52 PM
The revelation that the striking art was not authentic visibly struck Jensen’s expression as surprised. He restudied the piece with fresh perspective, but the soft smile that followed indicated it hadn’t diminished his admiration for the piece. “It’s still moving even if it is a reproduction. I’m sure the owner enjoys it.” He continued to absorb the swirling storm of colors a few more moments before his attention was redirected to the more sculptural pieces in view: porcelain, vases and glasswork. He wasn’t the kind of person who was clumsy, but he had a feeling that if he broke one, he would not be able to patch it together as easily as he could human beings. “Thank you for the warning, Kristian. I’ll make sure to keep a wide berth.” His tone was light, balancing humor with a bit of sincerity.
The question about his relocation from the States to the CCD was inevitable. Until recently he ran in circles where personal questions were avoided, but he had an answer at the ready. “I guess you could say work brought me to Moscow. It was time to get out of the States.” His guilty conscious picked at him as soon as he said it. It was truthful in that there was nothing misleading about the explanation, but he knew that it suggested a different kind of story than one he actually lived. Luckily, it seemed that Kristian did not recognize him by name. That wasn’t uncommon either, here. Unless someone had specific awareness of religious culture in the United States, they’d be unlikely to recognize a preacher.
“But I’ve been here a few years, and it feels like home now. I met someone I admire, academically speaking, and he’s been very generous with me.” He hoped that didn’t sound like he was suggesting an improper relationship, but he wasn’t sure how to amend the impression, so he quickly diverted to a new topic.
“What about you Kristian? How do you know the Vasilievs?”
The question about his relocation from the States to the CCD was inevitable. Until recently he ran in circles where personal questions were avoided, but he had an answer at the ready. “I guess you could say work brought me to Moscow. It was time to get out of the States.” His guilty conscious picked at him as soon as he said it. It was truthful in that there was nothing misleading about the explanation, but he knew that it suggested a different kind of story than one he actually lived. Luckily, it seemed that Kristian did not recognize him by name. That wasn’t uncommon either, here. Unless someone had specific awareness of religious culture in the United States, they’d be unlikely to recognize a preacher.
“But I’ve been here a few years, and it feels like home now. I met someone I admire, academically speaking, and he’s been very generous with me.” He hoped that didn’t sound like he was suggesting an improper relationship, but he wasn’t sure how to amend the impression, so he quickly diverted to a new topic.
“What about you Kristian? How do you know the Vasilievs?”