[ really, it was his dream job. maybe there were some who thought it silly, useless even, to want to be a curator for a museum. it was a building filled with the remnants of the dead, or with coloured pieces of paper that were hung on walls, but it was the job that Rook had always wanted. to him, there was something comforting to be surrounded by the pieces that had survived, the reminders that humans were somewhat the same, no matter how much time or how much space there might be between them, there was always a fascination with beauty, and with war, and death. they might be a place that were often filled with bones and echoes, but for Rook they were the most vibrant places.
he remembers the first time that his mother took him to a museum, a simple thing in their hometown, with only a handful of rooms and a few chunks of rock, but that place was the most interesting place in the world to the boy. they had a sandbox in a room where you could 'dig' for dinosaur bones, and once every few months, there would be a new piece of art on the walls in the one room, and whether it was from a famous artist or a local one, Rook always thought it was amazing. after his first visit, Rook visited every day after, becoming friends with the old lady who worked behind the desk covered in pamphlets and dust, and who would tell him stories from times before.
and maybe that is what he learned to love the most, the stories behind each artifact, each statue or painting, every piece of jewellery or the burial shrouds. there were stories. there were memories. love woven into every piece, a love of something so vibrant that it didn't fade over thousands of years.
so Rook studied history and anthropology, along with management, finances and relations to make sure that, no matter what, he was qualified to work in a museum. made sure that he was the top of his classes, top of the university, and so he spent the last year of his degree in the hot sands of northern Africa brushing off dust from pieces of pottery, and while it seemed boring enough, Rook loved it. he came home sunkissed and smiling, all the more in love with the past.
only a year later, he landed his first job as a junior curator at a small museum slash gallery in London.
the following year, he moved up. and not five years after his graduation, got his foot in the door at one of the most prestigious museums in Europe. there were those that whispered he got it because of his face, because he was often likened to the marble statues of the greek gods that lined the halls, but Rook likes to think that it was because he knew his stuff. that his love for the past, and for art, shone when you saw him speaks about what seemed to be nothing more than an old rock.
(it was never just some old rock, not if you asked Rook. there was the blood of a Roman emperor on it, the carvings from the hand of Achilles, a splatter of paint from Da Vinci. a story that was hidden just out of reach.)
Rook was also, thankfully, a people person. which meant that, once being hired at the museum, he was tasked with teaching the small tours that came in about different things, about answering questions and telling the stories that no one else saw. he was all the more suited for it with his mastery of multiple languages (his mother always told him that would be a benefit, he is so very glad he listened to her), so it wasn't unusuall to see him sitting on the floor in the middle of the Greek section speaking French and German and Korean to the children that gathered around.
all in all, Rook was in heaven.
which is why he comes in wrapped in his sweater and a scarf on this chilly winter morning, with tea in hand and a smile on his face. and maybe he is humming under his breath as he enters, typing in the passcode to grant him access to the darker backrooms of the museum, excited to see what was new, or rather what was old, for the day.
instead of statues and old papyrus though, Rook is met with a very new face in the backroom.
blinking, Rook pauses, scarf half unwrapped from around his neck, and cheeks flushed from the walk over, tea still clutched in hand.]
Oh, um. Are you-- new? Lost? Usually no one is back here when I come in. [ a huff, and a small smile. ] I mean, I'm not trying to be rude! Just, um-- yeah.
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timeasmymeasure
exhibit b; soft sweaters and marble statues
Date: 2019-02-13 08:15 pm (UTC)he remembers the first time that his mother took him to a museum, a simple thing in their hometown, with only a handful of rooms and a few chunks of rock, but that place was the most interesting place in the world to the boy. they had a sandbox in a room where you could 'dig' for dinosaur bones, and once every few months, there would be a new piece of art on the walls in the one room, and whether it was from a famous artist or a local one, Rook always thought it was amazing. after his first visit, Rook visited every day after, becoming friends with the old lady who worked behind the desk covered in pamphlets and dust, and who would tell him stories from times before.
and maybe that is what he learned to love the most, the stories behind each artifact, each statue or painting, every piece of jewellery or the burial shrouds. there were stories. there were memories. love woven into every piece, a love of something so vibrant that it didn't fade over thousands of years.
so Rook studied history and anthropology, along with management, finances and relations to make sure that, no matter what, he was qualified to work in a museum. made sure that he was the top of his classes, top of the university, and so he spent the last year of his degree in the hot sands of northern Africa brushing off dust from pieces of pottery, and while it seemed boring enough, Rook loved it. he came home sunkissed and smiling, all the more in love with the past.
only a year later, he landed his first job as a junior curator at a small museum slash gallery in London.
the following year, he moved up. and not five years after his graduation, got his foot in the door at one of the most prestigious museums in Europe. there were those that whispered he got it because of his face, because he was often likened to the marble statues of the greek gods that lined the halls, but Rook likes to think that it was because he knew his stuff. that his love for the past, and for art, shone when you saw him speaks about what seemed to be nothing more than an old rock.
(it was never just some old rock, not if you asked Rook. there was the blood of a Roman emperor on it, the carvings from the hand of Achilles, a splatter of paint from Da Vinci. a story that was hidden just out of reach.)
Rook was also, thankfully, a people person. which meant that, once being hired at the museum, he was tasked with teaching the small tours that came in about different things, about answering questions and telling the stories that no one else saw. he was all the more suited for it with his mastery of multiple languages (his mother always told him that would be a benefit, he is so very glad he listened to her), so it wasn't unusuall to see him sitting on the floor in the middle of the Greek section speaking French and German and Korean to the children that gathered around.
all in all, Rook was in heaven.
which is why he comes in wrapped in his sweater and a scarf on this chilly winter morning, with tea in hand and a smile on his face. and maybe he is humming under his breath as he enters, typing in the passcode to grant him access to the darker backrooms of the museum, excited to see what was new, or rather what was old, for the day.
instead of statues and old papyrus though, Rook is met with a very new face in the backroom.
blinking, Rook pauses, scarf half unwrapped from around his neck, and cheeks flushed from the walk over, tea still clutched in hand.]
Oh, um. Are you-- new? Lost? Usually no one is back here when I come in. [ a huff, and a small smile. ] I mean, I'm not trying to be rude! Just, um-- yeah.