A silence permeates the amphitheatre. From the bottom row, you watch the goddess where she huddles on one of seven altars on the stage, legs drawn to her chest and head covered by crossed arms. Occasionally you can see her shoulders give a heave, but no sound ever escapes her to be carried away by the acoustics. Scattered around her are the tattered remains of what was once a tragedy mask; the only piece still intact and recognizable is the warped, grotesque frown with ribbons of fabric at the fringed edges. Sitting amongst the ashes of her art, the irony is awful and beautiful and heartbreaking, and you almost wish this moment could be preserved forever, but you know it cannot and should not.
"Gods and mortals have been practicing their craft since time immemorial," comes a small, lilting voice from within her bunched form. "Some craft, any craft—things are made lovely by the effort that goes into them, and over the eons we have seen countless beautiful things." On the last note she lifts her head, and her eyes are watery but full of knowing. She looks to her sides, towards the empty and broken altars surrounding her, confining her. There are mangled mementos sitting on them: a halved globe with faded names; a lyre with frayed strings; books unraveling at the seams; a lone ballet slipper; a comedy mask that had been subject to the same cruel whims of time as its sister.
Her eyes return to you as she rests her chin on thin arms. The tears have cleared from her eyes, but in their place a deep agony has taken hold of her. "We waited with bated breaths for what great feat might come next. We would send down whatever creative flows we could to aid in the next masterpiece of music, of literature, of architecture, of painting, of design. It seemed as if the ingenuity would never end, and yet here I am, and here my sisters are not."
Melpomene's sorrow is palpable as she continues. "The curators have all gone now. The artist works and works to bring something to this world so that they may be remembered always, and in the end they can never make anything that can truly make them endure."
Ending is the consequence of being, you respond, the barest hint of regret in your tone. A quiet descends between the two of you, not altogether uncomfortable. You notice movement in the corner of your eye, and you turn slightly. Descending into the open-air theatre is a butterfly, unremarkable and gentle and pure. It flutters around the furthermost side of the amphitheatre for a moment, and then makes its way over to the occupied pedestal. Melpomene looks up, and slowly lifts her arm to welcome the visitor.
"We, the creators, will always meet an end, and my sister Muses and I are only one example" she agrees softly. "But I do not think that it all ends with us. Once the inventor puts out their machine, it creates a life of its own beyond its maker. This, I do not believe, will ever die." She smiles, content with her conclusion, made on a forgotten stage to no audience. You think to yourself that if they take on a life, they must experience a death, but feel no need to end her reverie.
You watch as the butterfly lifts itself off her slack arm, carrying her words on its wings to you.
"Art is immortal."
