What makes art valuable?

How does one place a price tag on an artist's work?

What is the determining factor that changes how much a painting or a sculpture can sell for ?

One might argue that a piece of art's price should reflect the materials that it is made of. Yet there have been many cases of paintings and sculptures that are objectively worth less than the price of a diamond, and yet sell more than the price of a house.

Then if an artist's work is not valued by its material composition, is it valued by its aesthetic beauty? The answer to this question is a resounding no. Not all art is beautiful or meant to evoke positive feelings. In fact, there have been many famous and expensive pieces of art that glorify the ugliness of the world.

Then in the end should the value of a piece of art be placed upon the amount of skill involved in its creation. After all, a statue carved over the course of a year by a master should be worth more than a small child's wooden carvings.

In reality, the worth of a piece of art is completely subjective. Its value cannot be simplified to a single statement. A king may venerate a statue carved by an experienced sculptor but the same statue placed in front of a beggar might not even be treated as over-glorified firewood.

Even beauty cannot be used to value art as one man's treasure may be another man's trash.

In the English language, there is only one word that can be vaguely used to gauge the value of art at any given time.

Luxury

Art is A Luxury. And its value is completely dependent on how much luxury people can afford in their lives. It completely depends on how much money can be thrown without worry and how much money is needed to live a good life.

In times of great prosperity, a painting can be used to trade for riches. In times of squalor and desperation, a golden statue is nothing but a shiny waste of space.

This harsh fact can be seen anywhere and everywhere.

Especially on the continent of Velarus.

Before the age of Flame, when light had not yet descended art was non-existent. No living creature had time to sit around and contemplate the beauty of the world. When giants roamed the land and bugs were as large as houses no one had time for artistic pursuits.

During the age of Iron and conflict, art and aesthetics were set aside for Iron and war. Who would dare spend their money on a small painting or sculpture when at any moment they could be attacked.

And yet during the age of Light art was celebrated. Grand sculptures adorned the roads, and any artist with a smidgen of talent could find work and pay.

The age of light was a time so prosperous that even a middle-class blacksmith could commission a self-portrait. Farmers could afford carved and painted toys for their children.

A moderately wealthy noble could even commission a team of artists to craft them a twelve-foot-tall marble statue of themselves with extra muscles.

Yet sadly such times never lasted long.

Most intelligent creatures would rather use hard-earned resources on rather useful objects and pursuits. Especially during times of trouble.

And to a somewhat struggling artist in the small city of Florence, it felt as if the Iron Age had descended once again.

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Cleff banged his head over and over again on his empty tin mailbox in a depressed stupor. Locking the small tin box up with his key Cleff quickly walked shuffled up the cramped narrow stair of his apartment building fleeing the judgemental eyes of his neighbors.

Sighing he contemplated the futility of life and his eventual death as his feet scraped against the dirty wooden stairs that circled through the center of the cramped tenement in which he resided.

" Florance was the city of art," Cleffs friends and close confidants had once told him.

" The epicenter of art and all things creative," he had heard his mentor boast more than once.

" You could easily find hundreds of clients just begging to get an oil portrait done, tens of wealthy men willing to sponsor the creation of a marble statue, and if your lucky a patron willing to house and feed you with generous pay to boot while you made whatever you wanted. " His family had claimed.

It all sounded too good to be true ( which it was most definitely ).

It was only after moving to the city of "art" that Cleff realized that the rumors that had been force-fed to him were completely and utterly false.

A gloomy atmosphere hung over the so-called city of sculptures and painters.

The colorful banners that once lined the streets had been taken down. The statues and intricate sculptures that once lined the streets were replaced with guard towers and barricades.

The people of the once open and vibrant city had gone silent glaring at each other with untrusting eyes as they hurriedly shuffled around the cities winding streets.

No longer was there any work for an aspiring artist for Cleff. No longer was there any room for him to grow.

He had gone 6 months without getting a single commission. Relying solely on occasionally illustrating small pamphlets for the city guard to support his meager existence.

Not a single soul within 100 miles seemed to be looking for anyone to paint or sculpt something.

Well, Cleff couldn't blame them, nor could he say he was surprised by the drastic change that had washed over the city of Florance over the last year.

After strange and horrific events started occurring all over the continent and the nights grew longer it was only right for suspicion and wariness to grow. Another dark age was coming at it was coming quick.

Strange beasts had been reported prowling the lands and attacking anyone they came in contact with. Unruly mists crept in endless waves across the continent, preventing many crops from growing due to lack of sunlight.

Rumors of a zombie plague had even started to circulate, although Cleff doubted the validity of the last claim as it came from a rather drunk hooligan.

Reaching the wooden door that was his own Cleff struggled with the lock for a moment before entering his rather cramped apartment that was half-filled with his art supplies. Several easels lied against the fall wall, pots for mixing paints and preserving pigments took up most of the floor space, and a backpack filled with all of his paintbrushes and carving tools took up space under the window.

Leaning on his bed Cleff closed his eyes and focused on the small image and the few numbers that existed within his mind space.

The inhabitants of Velarus had long ago gotten used to the numbers and words that took up a place in their minds. The Magica they called it, made up of the flowing magic that existed everywhere the Magica converted most information in the world into strange numbers and phenomena that any intelligent creature could understand.

The amount of magic it could wield in combination with a creature's physical attributes became levels. Common professions and archetypes became classes. Spells, knowledge, and experience became skills, and a creature's ability to take damage and survive became health points or Hp for short.

The Magica never actually had any control over anything. It only provided information and acted as a tool for the inhabitants of Velarus to further themselves.

One interesting property of the Magica was that every person's interface and way of accessing it and looking at the information it provided was dependent on their chosen profession or way of life.

Cleff's view of the Magica had long ago turned into several pictures accompanied by a few words floating inside of his head once he chose to dedicate his life to art.

It was because of this that he was only able to sit back and stare at the strange pieces of art as they floated in his mind space. He couldn't even see his own level only an ever-changing self-portrait that he could never touch.

While others could steer their direction in life, changing things about themselves as they leveled up and making themselves stronger Cleff was locked into staying forever meek once he became an artist. Forever set to only get better at creating art and advancing its effects as he leveled up.

It was quite sad as.....

A scratching on the wooden shutters of his window woke Cleff up from his stupor.

Scared half to death Cleff scurried up and reached for a carving knife that was sitting on his backpack. Even if he had to fight something it wouldn't do much as he was an artist not a fighter but if he was going to go out he planned to do it swinging.

The tensions that ran rampant throughout the city had slowly crept into his heart as well causing him to assume the worst.

He couldn't just sit down and wait for the thing outside his window to learn how to open shutters.

After all, with all the strange things happening around the world, you could never be too cautious. After all, it might be a man-eating demon looking for its next meal.

Creaking the window open and expecting a demon Cleff was only slightly relieved to only find a bat holding a blood-red envelope.