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first
understand
the thing. This understanding gives your art a life of its own.”
    He glanced with dismay at his half-defaced mural, and he thought hard about what she had said. With two strokes he covered a street that had taken him hours to paint.
             
    Now, grown-up at last, he had the freedom to pursue his creative vision. Among the aspiring artists, Garth wandered the stalls to glean new ideas, to study techniques. He saw polymerized butterfly wings, clouded crystals carved into prismatic shapes. Some artists worked with fabric, others with string and thread, one with satin spiderwebs. Each medium was a tool to capture life and its possibilities, and he wanted to experiment.
    The streets came alive with shoppers and curiosity seekers. A few haughty spectators were sourly critical of everything on display, commenting how they themselves could create far superior art “if only they had the time.” Garth had no patience for all their talk; they were irrelevant.
    He sat back on his cushion, doodling while he watched the people. With only limited income from his daily job, Garth lived austerely. He couldn't afford high-tech creation and conceptualization gadgets, but he made do with the materials artists had used since the first paintings on cave walls.
    A gorgeous woman strutted beside a bronzed, muscular young man, arms linked in an old-fashioned way. The couple anticipated each other's steps, smiling at half-spoken phrases, as if they had been together for decades. Garth wondered if they were an elderly pair vacationing in younger bodies, rich blue bloods who had rented new forms for themselves.
    Garth tore off another sheet of sketching paper and rummaged in his box for colored chalk. His hands a blur of motion, he scraped dusty colors across the surface, catching the mood, the shapes. He tried to illustrate two old and comfortable souls in fresh and energetic young bodies, the love they shared, the advantages that wealth and privilege had brought them. Charcoal sticks added shadows and stark definition. With the forgiving media of chalk and charcoal, he could work quickly, the better to capture his impressions and ideas.
    Unlike restless Eduard and constantly searching Teresa, Garth had always known what he wanted to do with his life. He drew anything and everything that caught his eye. His art became a user's manual for his life, a way to sort through and understand and put his own perspective on everything he saw.
    Like a ripple on a placid lake, two uniformed Beetles walked through the market, escorting a trim man with dark hair, sunken eyes, and a bushy mustache. The BTL officers deferred to him, so the man was obviously not a prisoner, though his gaunt face and pale skin made him look wrung out. They followed the trim man as he looked at the various trinkets on display.
    “Chief Ob, may I remind you that a meeting is scheduled soon back at Bureau Headquarters,” one of the uniformed men said.
    The tired-looking man rubbed his mustache. “Another few moments, let me finish looking here.” He stopped in front of Garth's sketches, appraising them. Garth looked at the Beetles, remembered the problems they had caused at the Falling Leaves monastery, and concentrated on his work.
    “Some of these attempts are really quite inept,” the man said tactlessly, as if Garth had begged for his opinion. He picked up one of the sketches. “Have you had any training at all?”
    The intimidating presence of the BTL officers made him flush, and Garth accepted the insult. “No formal training. I just . . . like to do art.”
    “Well, you've got more enthusiasm than talent.” Then the man's expression softened. “Sometimes, though, sheer persistence may be enough to let you rise above the rest. I always wanted to be an artist myself, but I just didn't have the drive. Somewhere along the line, I lost my inspiration.” He seemed distracted for a moment, then turned an intense gaze back toward Garth. “You're