Lydia was taken up to her office. A doctor was called in and he quickly gave her some tranquilizer. The transition from the victories of the previous night to the horrible scene she’d just looked at was too much for her. He strongly suggested a vacation.

The police ruled that the death was a suicide. The Temple had clearly aggravated the poor woman but she was solely responsible for her own death. They decided she must have come for the gala and found a way to hide herself somehow. After everyone else had left, she pulled out her note and her knife.

The Temple’s security staff developed a new nighttime routine to make certain that no one else could hide out that way. They were thoroughly embarrassed about the entire thing. Privately they were glad that she had only attacked herself. The damage she could have done with her knife would have been enormous.

The media had a field day. Every station in New York sent reporters to cover the scene. It quickly became a national news story. More editorials were written. Men and women who had used their looks to get high paying jobs reading the news, clucked over the way society had failed this poor woman.

Lydia followed the advice of the friendly therapist and took that vacation. She hoped that the time away would bring her some perspective. Maybe she would understand why this woman felt so personally wronged. She doubted it.

If nothing else, some distance would certainly help. She couldn’t stand the accusatory looks. Every person around her became an enemy and she didn’t know how to handle it.

Someone at the staff suggested that they build a memorial to the poor Bag Lady. They could make a plaque for her. Maybe a small poem saying something about inner beauty.

When Lydia heard about this she carefully considered it. She requested a meeting with the man who suggested it. He walked in and was summarily fired. There would be no memorial.

In a perverse way, the publicity only brought in more people. Everyone wanted to see what was so beautiful that it would cause someone to commit suicide. Submissions for the pictures of the beautiful increased fivefold. There was a hunger for beauty in the world and Lydia would climb over anyone to provide it.

The phone woke her early. She hated when this happened. Was it a real call or just some crank with a wrong number. Or worse, could it be someone trying to sell her something? A different thought occurred to her, it could be someone from the media wanting to ask about last night. Well, that was too bad, they would have to wait until she was good and ready to get out of bed. She pulled the covers back over her head.

It rang again. Great, not only was someone calling at the wrong time, but they weren’t giving up. Well, that was just too bad. This morning was her own time and she wasn’t going to let anyone spoil it. It stopped ringing and she rolled over and tried to get back to sleep.

Another ring. Well, whoever it was, they were persistent. She got out of bed and moved towards her bathroom. It didn’t matter if someone was calling to tell her that the building was on fire. She wasn’t going anywhere until she’d had a shower and fully woken up.

After she was done, she went to get dressed. The phone wasn’t ringing anymore. Whoever it was had given up. It must not have been terribly important then. She picked up the phone and noticed that the calls were coming from the Temple. That wasn’t good. Oh well, someone probably spilled some wine last night and they’re freaking out about it.

It was time to go in anyway. Lydia called for her car to meet her downstairs. She’d pick up a muffin or something and be on her way. As she got in, she decided to avoid the news on the radio and listen to some light music. If today was going to be hectic, and the calls suggested that it might be, then she was going to enjoy as much peaceful time as she could.

The car pulled up to the side of the temple and she looked out of the window. As luck would have it, the timing was perfect. The building across the way was glimmering in the refracted light from one of the crystals. She just sat in the back of the car and appreciated it for a moment. It really was beautiful. Yes it was prideful, but my God, she had done so much for this city.

The moment passed and she walked into the Temple. One of the curators saw her right away, “Where have you been? We tried and tried to reach you!”.

“Yes, well, I decided to sleep in this morning. What possible emergency could have happened. I half expected to pull up and find the Temple in flames.”

This had been an attempt at humor but it fell flat with him.

“You’d better come this way.”

For the first time, Lydia noticed a handful of policeman and other official looking people. They were near the wing with the paintings. There was a crowd gathered and that’s where the curator was dragging her. The people noticed that she’d finally shown up and one by one they all began staring at her.

She stopped. “Well, what is it? What’s happened?”

The crowd parted and she could see a leg lying on the floor. It was connected to a body. As they gave her more space, she could see that body was lying in a pool of blood. Next to it was a knife, the obvious murder weapon.

A part of Lydia’s brain noted the rusty color on the floor and couldn’t help but compare it to the painting above. The painting had rich green tones and the colors complimented each other well. Whoever it was had the good sense to die in the right spot. She was immediately embarrassed by this thought.

Who was it? The way the body lay, it was hard to tell. She shifted around to get a better look at the face. Well, she should have figured it out from the clothes. It was the Bag Lady.

She looked at the nearest policeman. “Who killed her?”

Someone rushed up to her with a piece of paper. “There was a note. I think you should read it.”

To Whom It May Concern:

Why is Beauty important to me? I don’t really know. I see it everywhere in my life and it never makes me feel good or uplifted. It only reminds me that no one likes me or wants to spend even one second of their life with me. I see some guy with some stupid model and I know that he’d never ever talk to me if he could help it.

I’ve come to your Temple everyday. I’ve seen the beautiful things you want to show. I’ve looked at the pictures of your beautiful people. It all makes me sick.

They could all be stupid and shallow and not care about anyone at all. Would that matter to you? Not if their cheekbones were at just the right angle. Not if their nose was cute enough. Not if their eyes said just the right thing. The worst person in the world would still get into your good graces if they just had good enough abs or a plunging neckline.

Well, that’s enough. I was somehow unfortunate enough to be born into a world that is this screwed up. I’m not pretty enough for you, much less beautiful. I won’t lower myself with surgery or makeovers. You’re not worth it.

What does Beauty mean to me? It means that I’m not good enough. The world belongs to the painted whores. Well, go ahead and have it. This will be one less piece of dirt for you to avoid.

There was complete silence while Lydia read the note. After she was finished she looked down at the dead body. Then back at the note and she read it again. Back to the body and she just stared for a moment. She looked as if she was trying to put everything in order. They could see her struggling and then something broke.

“This wasn’t about you!”

She nearly doubled over such was her rage. She straightened and then sank to her knees. Softer now, “Why would you do this to us? What did we ever do to you?”

Lydia collapsed into sobs. The Temple workers quickly pulled her away and up to her office. They weren’t quick enough and both of her knees were stained with blood.

The night of the ceremony had gone flawlessly. They had brought each of the winners up on stage and let them wave for the camera. The lady from Oregon had her poem read aloud as she stood there and blushed. They’d gotten lucky with the girl from Brooklyn as she was cute as a bug.

Lydia stood in the back and watched. She sometimes liked the long view. It gave her a better idea of what the folks at home could see. Not bad. Not bad at all.

The after party was also fabulous. The cream of New York’s hippest crowd had all shown up. Someone started calling it BeautFest and the name caught on. There was a general expectation that this should become an annual thing.

Lydia got some strange thought of the Olympics in her head and she couldn’t shake it out. Every time they held one of those things there were stories about the Olympic village and all of the athletes romping together. Apparently hundreds of children were created each time. Maybe BeautFest would have the same kind of dynamic. Just think of it, hundreds of years from now the children would be noticeably better looking and in some small way she was to thank for it.

Of course they’d have to vary the question for next year’s contest. Not too hard to do. They could ask about ‘What is Beauty?’ or ‘What can we do to share more Beauty?’ or something like that. The response would be just as popular. No, she corrected herself. After word got out about how wonderful all of this was it was sure to be twice as popular. Maybe ten times!

As she was driven home that night she kept reflecting on the entire evening. It really had gone just about perfectly. The production was good. The people they had honored were very telegenic. All that and she had thrown a mean party. What more could she ask for?

Well, one thing. She picked up her phone and called her personal assistant. Everything had gone so well that she was going to treat herself tomorrow and come in late. They didn’t need her in early. For just one day they could fend for themselves.

As she went in to her apartment and readied herself for bed, she couldn’t help but congratulate herself again. Every part of this, from the Temple to the artwork to tonight’s silly promotion had been her idea. She had put it all together from scratch. As she got into bed she wondered if this was how the gods felt.

There were incidents of course. One morning they found that someone had spray painted ‘ONLY SKIN DEEP’ across the front doors. They quickly had it removed but not before some pictures were taken. One of them ended up on the cover of the tabloids.

Lydia laughed the entire thing off. It was an obvious comment and she was surprised that it hadn’t happened earlier. When she was interviewed by the media, she simply said that the vandal didn’t really understand what they were trying to do.

She said that they weren’t trying to promote ‘beauty’ as the best of all things. The Temple was there merely as a means to celebrate it. Recognizing one virtue didn’t mean you were condemning all the others, did it?

This led pundits and talking heads from all over the city to speculate on the role that ‘beauty’ should play in everyday life. When the New York media starts talking about something, it’s only a matter of time before it becomes a national conversation.

Lydia couldn’t have been happier. They were talking about her Temple, after all. Controversy had a way of selling tickets. She could picture people from all over the country reading about this and deciding to visit the place and see for themselves. If she could only keep it going somehow, it would mean even more publicity.

Then the idea struck. She could sponsor a contest. She’d have people from all over write in to the Temple, explaining why ‘beauty’ is important! Each entry would be judged and they’d select some winners. They could host an award ceremony right there in theater. It was a perfect idea.

Ideas came in from all over the world. They were almost all around the theme of enriching life. There were a few that took a more cynical approach and suggested that beauty was just a way to keep the powerful in hand. A few men wrote that it was there for their own personal satisfaction.

Lydia had her staff read through the entries and winnow them down so that they could select a winner. She also got together with her marketing people so that they could figure out what regions to take winners from. It was decided that at least one should be from Europe, preferably from France. They should also pick a West Coaster and probably one from a child that lived right in New York.

It was easy enough to find the winners. A man in France suggested that beauty inspired his life and he didn’t know what he’d do without it. A lady from Oregon had written a poem about the beautiful things she saw outside of her window and how it was a gift from God. A little girl from Brooklyn wrote about how beautiful her mother was. All sure fire winners.

Lydia sat back at her desk and reflected on how much good publicity they’d end up with when this was done. All because some wacko decided to try and ruin everyone else’s fun by spray painting something on her Temple. She hoped that somewhere they appreciated the irony. Too bad she’d never know.

There were so many details to figure out. Who should host the ceremony? When should they schedule it? Should this be an annual thing? They’d have to wait until the numbers got back to them, but she liked the idea.

Maybe they could invite some of the young ladies whose pictures they had featured. It shouldn’t be too tough to find a few that had ended up with positive life changes because of it. They could come in and say a few words into a microphone. She liked this idea too.

Well, the first thing they needed to do was to find a spot on the calendar. Once that was done they could arrange the rest. It was important to get everything in the correct slot after all. Then the rest became easy.

There were a few users that really did come to the place on an almost daily basis. As she recognized them, she began to study them relentlessly. Most of them liked the sculpture but what really drew them in were the paintings. There was a small dedicated group that would show up late on weeknights, when the galleries were less crowded. Most of these would set up sketching pads and try and reproduce what they were looking at.

There was one that Lydia had trouble categorizing. This patron was a lady, probably in her 40’s. It looked life had treated her roughly.

Lydia had picked her out early because she stood out. Her jacket was out of date and on the cheap side. She didn’t match up to the standards that the other patrons set as far as fashionable style. Lydia didn’t know her name, but had mentally given her a title so she could better keep track of her. She thought of her as the Bag Lady.

Maybe that was too harsh. Probably it was, but she kept it to herself. There was no way she could be hurt by it, so what was the harm?

The Bag Lady visited almost every day. She’d come in the early evening and look around to judge the crowd. If the people allowed, the first place she’d visit was the contemporary wing. She’d look at the pictures of the models and the amateurs with a curious longing on her face.

Lydia wanted to know her story but couldn’t think of any way to really find out. Well, she could hire a detective or something if it came to that. She decided she didn’t want to know badly enough to do that. The idea of simply walking up and talking never occurred to her.

Why did she come and stare at the young women like that? Was she jealous? The Bag Lady’s looks weren’t anything spectacular. In most places people wouldn’t give her a second glance. Here in the Temple of Beauty, she seemed almost repulsive. It very well could be jealousy.

Another idea occurred to Lydia. This one was far more romantic at least. What if she’d lost a daughter years ago and was hoping to find her picture here! Wouldn’t that be something. Lydia could almost put together the breathless news stories already.

Or maybe it was more frightening story. What if the Bag Lady had once been a model herself and she was somehow hoping that an old picture of her would show up and be immortalized. Lydia looked more closely at her face. Even if she smoothed out the violence that age had brought, that story didn’t fit. It must be something else.

Sometimes Lydia thought this was a silly game to play but it didn’t stop her. She was busy, very busy and if it took something harmless like this to keep her sane then so be it. Besides, didn’t everyone look at strangers and wonder what their story was?

There were others that caught her attention. One was the Poet. He’d show up every Sunday night. Each week he’d pick out a different piece of art and stand in front of it. Then he’d turn and get everyone’s attention and read a poem, most likely of his own writing. The patrons would sometimes applaud and other times look embarrassed.

Lydia had discussions with the rest of the Temple staff, trying to decide what they should do about him. The consensus was to leave him alone. Every place needed color and he helped provide it for them. Besides, Sunday was a slow night and he didn’t bother many people.

There was also the Fox. This one worried Lydia. He was an older man, dressed all in black. He looked at the art as most of the patrons did but there was something about him that spooked her. He seemed to be casing the place, looking for weaknesses. She fully expected to find out that he’d stolen something from them.

She even called together her security team and had someone sent over from her insurance people. They took a long look at him but found nothing they could act on. In the end, they decided that whenever he entered, a special signal would go to the front desk. He’d be watched the entire time he was there. That was really the best they could do unless he gave them cause.

Who came to the Temple? Lydia obsessed over this. She decided early on that she would sell passes to see it. There would be daily passes that could be purchased at the door. Others would be bundled in with regular museum passes that were city wide.

The most important for her were the season passes. These were good for a year and Lydia thought they would represent the repeat visitor. Maybe even the chronic ones. She had rigged a way so that they system would give her a light whenever one of these passes was used to enter.

For years Lydia had wondered who was interested in her products. She would linger in magazine stores to see who bought the her issues. She had promoted survey after survey to see who her readers were. When the internet became a factor she had worked on different ways of tracking her readership. It was something of an obsession for her.

The signals from the season passes were part of the same story. For the first time in her career, she had made something that people could enter in the flesh. She could just sit back and watch them.

The casual visitor didn’t interest her very much. Lydia was glad for their money and their time but it wasn’t difficult to see what made them tick. The Temple had been heavily advertised. It was featured prominently on entertainment news shows. The building was on the cover of several magazines, even some that she didn’t own.

She had campaigned heavily with the tourism boards of New York City to have them promote this gem. This caused them to put it into their commercials right between the Statue of Liberty and Washington Square. It became a regular stop for sight seeing busses.

In the end, she had even bribed the mayor to talk it up. This didn’t sit easily with Lydia. Well, the girl had been fascinated with him for years. It wouldn’t hurt her career either. Even if it became public knowledge, affairs like that only seemed to hurt the politician.

It was the people who visited more often that she was fascinated with. The art was good but was it really twice a month good? Should even the features that changed regularly, like the photos, bring someone back on a regular basis? Of course Lydia hoped they would but her long time obsession with the customer made her doubt it. The chronic visitor might hold the key.

There was an added element for her too. The people that came back again and again, what did they look at? Was it the paintings or the sculpture? Were there certain spots that they liked to stop at or was it different for each person. If Lydia could craft the art to just the right specification, could she get more people to come back time and again?

Or maybe that was the wrong approach. Were there pieces they should be spotlighting? She enjoyed her walk through the sculpture every day. What if they promoted that exact behavior? Could they get more New Yorkers to come in and try it for themselves? Her dream plan was one where a huge number of locals thought of her Temple as a necessary daily stop.

They sold a large amount of season passes. Most of them would only be used a couple of times. Another large number would be passed around to others. Lydia understood this and didn’t really begrudge the buyers. It screwed up her data but she really couldn’t help it.

Lydia

There was a time each morning where the sunlight would hit one of the crystal tips on the roof and then glow through to the building across the street. The refracted light would shimmer ever so slowly. It looked like a spell of some sort had been cast, adding a bit of magic to the city.

Lydia was always happy to be near a window each morning when that happened. It was an unexpected highlight of the day. It made her feel proud. She'd wanted to add some beauty to the city and this was one more small way that she had succeeded.

Of course something small like a little light show was completely overshadowed by the much larger things. The galleries were the best example. She had employed designers and art historians to go out and find just the right items for her. The weren't looking for the most famous or the most technically rendered pieces. Their only instruction

was to find the most beautiful.

They had been wildly successful. Each section of the galleries was nothing short of gorgeous. Lydia loved to watch the patrons move from piece to piece. Their reactions were obvious. They all loved what she had done.

Well, most of them. There was a vocal minority that considered anything beautiful to be too bourgeois. They panned her efforts.

Oh well, it couldn't be helped. There would always be people who were jealous of beauty. It only made sense that so many of these people would get jobs tearing down others creativity. As the saying goes, 'if you can't do, make it hard for those who can'.

At least their criticism wasn’t keeping the crowds away. She had a small office above the main floor. It was disguised so that no one down there could see it for what it was. She wanted to be able to see people wander through. Some part of her got an extra kick out of the fact that she was watching them from a secret spot.

She looked down at the wing that housed paintings. There was a crowd of people, jammed in there looking at each piece. Many of them had guide books or ear plugs for the self guided tour.

Down the other wing was the sculpture. They had found various examples of nude men and women through the ages for this. You could walk down one side of it and see 2500 years of body appreciation. She liked the effect and often started her day with this little treat.

The third wing was for contemporary beauty. They had pictures of models that were rotated out on a weekly basis. Women fought for a chance to be showcased there.

They also had a popular place where patrons could submit their own photos. Each week a new one would be chosen and blown up for display. It was widely believed that this was a sure path to stardom. This competition was also fierce.

Lydia had wanted a small amphitheater where TV shows could be filmed on remote. The designers had tried to steer her away from this, telling her that it would be tacky and take away from the classical feel that she was trying for. Her mind was filled with images of celebrity talk show hosts fighting for the space.

She had to have it. In the end, they compromised by making it into a replica of ancient Greek theater space. It would be live beauty, right? The attention that would bring couldn’t be overestimated. People would come from all over the world to walk in the same footsteps as a super model.

Not that there hadn’t been problems along the way. The first live broadcasts had run into technical trouble. There were always bugs to shake out of any system and most people understood that. Everything was fixed as quickly as it could be.

That wasn’t good enough for this particular host though. She demanded to see Lydia and then tore into her for what she called ‘shoddy workmanship’. Lydia remained calm and waited for the super model to wind down. When she did, Lydia simply requested a copy of the contract. It was brought to her. She scanned through it, found a section on penalties due and then ripped it up.

Then she had words of her own. “This is a temple dedicated to Beauty. Your ugliness has sullied it. I want you and your production crew out of here immediately.” Then she turned to leave.

“You can’t do this to me! Do you know who I am?”

She turned back. “Oh yes. I know who you were and I know who you are now. Furthermore, I know who you’re going to be. Nothing. You’re finished in this town.”

And she was. Lydia made certain that her frame of the argument got out. The host was made to look like the spoiled brat that she was. Others were encouraged to come out and share their stories. Each one made her look worse and worse.

Lydia used her connections within the fashion journals to increase the black eye. Every bad picture of the model, somehow found it’s way to daylight. The police were tipped off about every loud party, especially when she was drunk. Her reputation nosedived.

Six months later the plug was pulled on her talk show. It had all started going badly when she bad mouthed the Temple. Lydia made certain that this story circulated in the proper circles.