Rarity the unicorn was exceedingly generous.
Often, ponies who didn’t know her better and liked to make assumptions would say her generosity came from a place of manipulation. There must be some underhoofedness to her actions, that she gave to others with the expectation of receiving in return, or wanting something, or simply something malicious or impure.
The reality was much more complicated.
Ultimately, many things do lead to an event in exchange. It is the way of life, not an indictment or a justification, just a fact.
Art, however, was not the same for Rarity.
In the months following her grand taste of being in the window display, Rarity still created for no other reason than to design and share designs with those who wanted it.
Once upon a time, a stallion stepped into her Canterlot store to look around at her designs. Though a designer himself, he acted just as a customer would, looking around, trying things on, things of such sort.
And then when he finished, he began to critique the outfits unprompted, just as the stallion from Ponyville had.
Harshly.
This was out-of-date, this was badly done, this clashed horribly, this was simply tacky. It went on for what felt like for hours, and the more Rarity tried to defend herself, the more he doubled down because he was more experienced, he said.
“Ponies like my designs!” Rarity protested. “I was featured in the Fashion Rue—”
“The windows?” he asked, and his voice took a kinder tone. “Every piece I put out is featured there. I know what I’m talking about, Miss Rarity.” He looked around, eyed all the things she’d done with her heart and soul, and he believed every word he said with full sincerity, “This? This is amateur.”
And he continued, tearing everything inside and out.
“I—I don’t understand,” she said, eventually, near tears but holding them in since she’d sooner die than let anyone see her cry. “If you hate them so much, why did you come here? Why say anything of this to me? Why not just leav—”
“I’m helping you!” he exclaimed, and his voice remained kind. Gentle. “Don’t you see, Miss Rarity, I’m doing this for you. You’re an amateur. But I see potential in you.”
And it went unsaid that she ought to listen to him because he was good. Better. And any artist trying to improve needed to get edited, which was true, and right, but.
But.
But.
But, years later, long into the night, drinking from a bottle of wine, Rarity would think of that meeting. She would think of it with anger, and rage, and poisonous bitterness, eating her alive. Not that it mattered, anymore, anyway, of course. She wasn’t a designer anymore.
But it ate her up, still.
Not his critiques, though, oh no.
Critiques are important to grow. To learn, and to continue, and to improve. It is a reality of anypony who wants to improve at a craft that they must receive feedback in order to grow. It is also a reality that every pony who presents anything out into the world will find somepony who does not like it, and just as many will say as much, unprompted or not, warranted or not.
So Rarity thought of that moment, finishing her third glass of wine, and hated herself not just because she allowed critique to get to her, but because of what happened. The unbearable, humiliating reality that she’d allowed one terrible experience with a terrible pony to rewire her mind.
It had started benevolently.
As ravaged as she was, she decided to take it in good faith. This was so she’d improve, after all. She wasn’t about to think herself so grand she was above critique.
So she worked with him, and as she did…
She’d present an outfit she loved, and he’d tell her it was good, but could be better if he added what he thought she ought to add. What made it better to his tastes, which were right for he was better than her, Miss Ra-ri-ty.
And as mentioned before, it wasn’t his critiques that ate her up years later, but her response.
“Alright,” even if she felt he was wrong.
And so it continued, with him over and over again, reminding her how she was doing so well because of his expertise, and with others too—others who meant well—who’d offer advice which she’d take because it was expected of her as an artist, and she had to improve at all costs, and they were helping her, even if she felt they were wrong.
Her bottle of wine empty, Rarity stood up to fetch another, walking past a locked closet containing dozens of lovely designs she’d hadn’t been able to look at in years. Beautiful designs that felt like toxic waste because she could see in every stitch, every color, every shape all the times she’d changed her heart to please Him. And Others. And Everyone Else.
Because they were liked, her clothes. Because they were helping her. Because the customer and the grand designers are always right and she was nothing more than a little designer from Ponyville who was amateur but was blessed to have people like her, so.
So the least Rarity could do was be perfect.