[Here you go, OP - short but sweet. I hope it satisfies!]
“Really, Milord, I regret to say that I found your poetry to be quite uninteresting. Trite, sentimental, and shallow, it contains none of the visionary imagination which denotes true artistic greatness. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought it the work of a lovesick fourteen year old. I do hope that in the future, you will stick to governing and banking and not attempt to intrude upon the world of the fine arts.”
After the poetry critic had left, Giovanni slipped from the shadows and silently wrapped his arms around Lorenzo’s shoulders.
“Go away, Giovanni. I am not in need of comfort, whatever you may think. I asked for his honest opinion and he gave it. It would be childish to be upset about it.”
“It would be only human to be upset about it, you put so much of yourself into your poetry. Don’t listen to that daft old bat. What does he know? He’s only a critic because he has no modicum of artistic talent himself. Your work is wonderful, heartfelt and graceful.”
Despite Lorenzo’s insistence that he was not upset, his rigid posture eased a little at the honest praise.
Seeing that his words were helping, Giovanni continued, “You don’t write for him. You write for yourself. As long as you are satisfied, that is all that matters.”
“Not only for myself,” Lorenzo murmured, smiling a little as he twisted around to kiss him.
Fill - What Makes Art [1/1]
“Really, Milord, I regret to say that I found your poetry to be quite uninteresting. Trite, sentimental, and shallow, it contains none of the visionary imagination which denotes true artistic greatness. If I didn’t know better, I would have thought it the work of a lovesick fourteen year old. I do hope that in the future, you will stick to governing and banking and not attempt to intrude upon the world of the fine arts.”
After the poetry critic had left, Giovanni slipped from the shadows and silently wrapped his arms around Lorenzo’s shoulders.
“Go away, Giovanni. I am not in need of comfort, whatever you may think. I asked for his honest opinion and he gave it. It would be childish to be upset about it.”
“It would be only human to be upset about it, you put so much of yourself into your poetry. Don’t listen to that daft old bat. What does he know? He’s only a critic because he has no modicum of artistic talent himself. Your work is wonderful, heartfelt and graceful.”
Despite Lorenzo’s insistence that he was not upset, his rigid posture eased a little at the honest praise.
Seeing that his words were helping, Giovanni continued, “You don’t write for him. You write for yourself. As long as you are satisfied, that is all that matters.”
“Not only for myself,” Lorenzo murmured, smiling a little as he twisted around to kiss him.
************************************************************
The next day, when a messenger brought word that a certain poetry critic had been mugged in an alleyway, Lorenzo was not the last bit surprised.