“I think you will like this one Your Royal Highness. It is by one of our most talented new artists.”

Professor Marble Plinth, the director of the Royal Canterlot Portrait Gallery and President of the Equestrian Academy of Arts ushers me over to a large oil painting. It shows the image of Twilight Sparkle hard at work inside her library, surrounded by shelves of books.

“Just look at that profile.” There is no mistaking the pride in Plinth's voice. “Look at how the artist has captured her weary but determined eyes, showing how she has been studying hard all night. The face of a serious scholar, but one destined for power.”

The professor is giving me a private tour of the summer exhibition, where the members of the academy display the portraits they have been working on over the last year. We are walking along a gallery on the top floor. To one side the windows look out over stunning views of the towers of Canterlot Castle and the mountains beyond. On the other side, the wall is covered with the finest portrait paintings produced by the Canterlot artistic elite.

The academy summer exhibition is a tradition which goes back many years. As patron of the gallery I am given a private tour before it is opened to the public. I have seen many artistic styles come and go over the years. In the past, artists would paint portraits of the aristocracy and rich merchants. Today, the favorite subjects are Twilight Sparkle and her friends, the bearers of the Elements of Harmony.

I examine the portrait of my former pupil. That's Twilight all right. I bring my head up close, taking care not to touch it—it would be embarrassing if I put my horn through the canvas. It is undeniably a work of art painted with outstanding skill. But it is not very interesting. It looks just like the last dozen paintings of Equestria's newest princess which I have been asked to examine. I try to think of something intelligent to say, which will not offend the professor.

“I like all the library books in the background.” I read the titles of the painted library book spines and chuckle. “But I don't think Twilight would have put Anthology of Pony Verse on the same shelf as Introduction to Quantum Chemistry.”

The professor makes no further comment and we move on to the next portrait.

“This one is entitled Fluttershy at Tea with Friends. As you can see, it really captures the natural grace of the Element of Kindness. Her timidity, but also her inner strength. Look at how her mane flows, and how she fondly gazes at the creatures around her.”

Aaah—a critters' picnic with Fluttershy. Who could not love such a cute image? Which is no doubt why I have seen eleven similar paintings this morning. Why can't the artists be more original?

“I like the mischievous grin on Angel Bunny's face,” I say. “I would love to know what he is thinking.”

We move on to the next painting, showing a smiling Rainbow Dash flying among the clouds. A lovely happy scene. Just like the last ten Dash portraits.

“Just look at the way the artist has depicted the sunlight shining on her wings, the silver lining of the clouds, and the sparkle of the drops of morning dew on her feathers...” He pauses for a moment, staring at the painting with sheer adoration. “I could just stand here admiring this one for hours.”

“I wonder how the artist managed to get Rainbow Dash to stay still for long enough for them to finish it.” I say. I remember the last time I visited Ponyville schoolhouse. Young Scootaloo showed me a painting of Rainbow Dash she had done, entitled Awesomeness. It was a splash of all the colors of the rainbow, but there was no visible shape of a pony. Scootaloo explained to me that this was because Rainbow Dash flies so fast, she had already flown out of the picture. Scootaloo belongs to the abstract futurist school of art.

We come to the end of the gallery. I turn to face the professor.

“Thank you so much for the tour Professor Plinth. I am so pleased to see that the academy members are artists of such high skill. But I was wondering—”

“Thank you, thank you Your Highness,” Plinth cuts me off. “I knew you would enjoy it as you are a pony of impeccable taste. We are all very grateful for your support.”

I had been going to casually suggest that maybe the artists of the academy could experiment with some new styles for next year, but it is not worth it. They are not going to change.

“I suppose I should be getting back to the castle.”

“Before you go...” The professor looks up at me with an agitated look.

“Yes?”

“I was wondering... That is to say... Well... The situation is: we need to carry out some urgent building work on the west wing. But we are rather short of funds... Could you possibly step in and help us out? We need to find some two million bits.”

So this is why I have just had such a long personal tour. The joy of being a patron of the arts.

“I will need to talk to the treasury.”

“I understand.”



I walk out of the gallery onto the cobbled street. This is the Artist Quarter of Canterlot town. I love visiting it as it reminds me of all the artists I have been friends with over the years. A hundred and fifty years ago Canterlot was the center of the Impressionist movement. Painters would sit out in this street with their easels, working quickly, with short thick brushstrokes, to record movement and capture the moment before the light changed. At the time the critics dismissed their work as unfinished, but I loved it. When you get to my age, everything you see reminds you of something you have already seen and it becomes harder and harder to find something original. But when I do find something genuinely new, it is a real treat. The challenge is then to persuade Plinth and the other pompous critics in the Equestrian Academy of Arts of its merit. But, I remind myself, I must make an effort not to offend the artists, who have all put their heart and soul into their paintings, which unfortunately fail to excite me.

Walking past an art supply store and seeing the tubes of colored paints on display in the window, I think of an old artist friend of mine, Paint Splatter. To match his name, his cutie mark was a splattering of paint spots. But his coat was almost always covered with real paint stains from his work and it was impossible to distinguish this from his cutie mark. All very appropriate—you could not separate his true identity from his artistic expression—that was Paint Splatter. I had first met him when, as a young colt, he was brought before me by the royal guard, who had caught him spraying graffiti on the castle walls. I was so impressed by his work, that I sentenced him to the penalty of painting a mural on my bedroom wall. We had become good friends, but I had not seen him for years. He had moved to Manehattan, and continued his clandestine public art campaign. I wonder how he is getting along now.




In the afternoon I return to the gallery.

“Princess Celestia!”

Plinth greets me with a broad smile and shows me into his office.

“Hello again,” I say. “I am pleased to tell you that the treasury has agreed to your request for funds.”

“Excellent. Excellent. I knew I could rely on you. Thank you! Thank you! If there is anything we can do for you in return, please...”

“Actually, there might be something you could do.”

“Of course Your Highness. What is it?”

“I understand that as patron of the Equestrian Academy of Arts, I am entitled to nominate an artist for a fellowship of the academy.”

“Of course, of course. I can give you a shortlist of contemporary Canterlot artists who are of the necessary caliber...”

“Actually I had a particular artist in mind. A friend of mine. I believe a position at the academy would be the ideal thing to give him an outlet for his creative energy, and encourage him to show a bit more respect for authority. And it would also be good for the academy.”

“In what way?”

“Well, while there is no questioning the skill of the current academy artists, I feel they are, perhaps, are a little conservative when it comes to choice of style. All they seem willing to paint is cute pictures of fillies.”

“Cute pictures of fillies is what the public want.”

“Indeed. But it was thinking it would be fun to shake things up a little. After all, in past times Canterlot was the capital of the Equestrian art world, but we have lost that title. All the top young artists of our age choose to work in Manehattan.”

“I quite agree. We can achieve this by upholding our standards. Manehattan is just a passing fashion. And, you know, some of what they show in Manehattan really doesn't count as art!”

“I was there for the last summer exhibition at the Maretropolitan Museum. I thought some of the pieces were very original.”

“That's one way of putting it. Wasn't one piece just a bale of hay on the floor of the gallery?”

“Yes. We thought it was a free buffet, but then the guards told us it was one of the exhibits. That made us all laugh. I guess that was the point—why can't lunch also have artistic value? Why can't a work of art also serve as a snack?”

“But some exhibits were just vulgar! That piece with the ponies floating in a jar.”

“Oh yes, the sculpture with the plastic pony dolls suspended in a transparent gel. I think the idea was to get the viewer to think. We always consider ponies as personal friends, but from a different perspective, we are all just a marketable commodity to be sold to children like bits of candy. It was very thought-provoking.”

“A-And there was the work that was just bits of junk hanging from the roof!”

“Nightmare Moon, by Avant Garde from Fillydelphia, which won second prize? Quite an innovation. She blew up her studio with explosives, then suspended the resulting pieces from the gallery ceiling with a light bulb in the center to throw shadows onto the walls. I was a bit worried that Luna might be upset by the title, but she saw the joke straight away.”

“B-B-But... That thing with the celery! Really!?”

“I thought that one was rather funny.”

“And... You know they once displayed a set of paintings which were just blank white canvas!”

“Do you not like the color of my flank, Professor?”

“No no no! It's just... I mean... Is that really art?”

“I couldn't comment. But I thought my coat was doing rather well, considering that I am over a thousand years old.”

“But, you understand, academy fellowships are supposed to be reserved for artists who have produced work of outstanding quality?”

“My friend has certainly achieved that. He has worked with a wide range of media, and developed a highly individual style, drawing on the surrealist and dadaist tradition.”

“I... Your Highness... Princess...” The professor blusters, unsure what to say. I wait patiently. “He would need to demonstrate some level of national recognition.”

“He has. His work has been seen across Equestria. He has been exhibited in the Canterlot Sculpture Garden.”

“But... Well... To be honest, I think the problem is that the existing fellows are all very senior, and I don't think they would be too pleased if we appoint a young upstart.”

“My candidate is no youngster. Quite the opposite.”

“Oh!” Plinth looks up at me with an expression of genuine surprise and a little relief.

“Do I know the pony?”

“Not a pony. A draconequus.”