71 Ashan, 724
.
Continued from here.
His heart rate had resolved itself into a normal pulse akin to those who were notably resting against sofas and beds and lounge chairs. Still, he wasn't sure where his trial was taking him. He had admitted his acceptance to the side of what could be a lovely young woman who had artistry skills he hadn't found in anyone other than that of a random homeless guy who made caricatures of people who wandered the streets, but this definition was open ended, without final punctuation and very much up for debate. Regardless, he was more than enthusiastic about what would be shown to him, even if it pertained to horses (a recent interest, but one that wouldn't hold so long as the young man's mind continued to wander).
Without a second to waste, and as soon as he had stationed himself directly behind her shoulder, he watched carefully as the young artist raised the work she had in progress and compared it to the living subject she had so diligently been trying to capture. Eventually, she slid her journal back down, laid it flat across her lap, and added a few hayward lines of which Kotton couldn't tell as to their purpose. What she had already drawn seemed perfect enough, so what was the need for additional detail? Speaking of detail... his lips lingered across the fair maiden's face, especially her lips.
"Would you mind not being so attractive?"
Kotton was taken aback at first. He didn't think he had dressed that glamorously. But as soon as the compliment had reached his ego, it quickly died. He realised that the horse had fancied* him, her eyes latched onto his attire the way butterflies flocked to florescence colours and floral patterns.
He admitted a soft apology before manouvering himself further behind the young lady- he was of a less distraction that way. That was when the young man's intrigue blossomed. He peered over the lady artist's shoulder and was instantly mesmerised by the careful linework and even more circumspective shading delegated to the edges of the design. He came to understand that art was more than just vision; steady hands and accurate depiction were also important when it came crafting a unique and original piece. His eyes lit up as a smile pulled at the edges of his lips. He licked his bottom lip, still chapped from the trials he spent forgetting to moisturize, as he assiduously observed the sketch. Everything was proportional. It was almost as if the horse had been taken out of reality and been placed inside this woman's personal art book.
“Wow,” he breathed.
"I use heavier strokes of shading to demonstrate something as farther away and I use lighter strokes to make it seem like something is closer. It's all about perspective," she informed with a flick of her ultra-white locks. "I just really wanted her to look at me so I can capture the perfect image of her portrait."
So perspective and viewpoint, an exact placement in space and time, were the important factors that made a representation of reality seem almost unreal. Kotton cleared his throat and took a step back. He didn't want to invade the young artist's space as she continued to work on capturing every tedious detail.
"Don't fret," she said abruptly. "I'm good at working under pressure."
With this in mind, Kotton closed the gap and took the kilometre he had been given- he kept his chin only a few millimetres from the young lady, intrigue still sparking like fuses tied to barrels of gunpowder. He was going to witness this artwork firsthand. Or he would die trying.
Sitting where she was, the young man watched her stand up a little straighter. She adjusted her shoulders so they were more equilateral than the horizontal beams that kept a tavern standing upright. He watched as her face brightened. Her cheeks grew rosy with the fever of being given inspiration someone. Kotton couldn't help but smile with her, even if it was a toothy grin, fringe offsetting the righthand side of his vision in a goofy manner.
"What's youw name?" she finally asked, pivoting on her chair to look directly at him.
There was no delay in his reply. "Kotton."
"Well, Kotton," she said, voice changing with mild hesitation. "Can you hold onto that look you're making?"
He immediately became embarrassed, self-aware, instantly reminded of whatever face he was making and thereby instinctively changed it out of fear of it being the wrong one.
"Nope, no, it's gone now," the young woman muttered. Her mouth twisted into one of disappointment. She took an unhappy toke of her pipe before pivoting back towards the horses that stood behind their respective gates. She would have to continue with what she had initially been working on.
Kotton was in shock. He blubbered, stuttered, and blustered words that made sense to no one, not even himself. He wasn't for such a request! Whatever- he banished the thought in time to the young woman flipping a page in her booklet. A fresh page that awaited her next move. There she began to detail the shaggy, yet slightly curly, yet relatively straight mane of a young man who had no idea that what his portraiture was still in the works of being drawn. She had just framed his face with the blunt end of her stick of charcoal before using the sharper bit to detail the corners of his eyes.
Kotton felt a small breeze bustle the baby hairs of his hairline. He uttered a gentle sigh. His thoughts naturally fell to a true question and not some filler inquiry made to keep conversation afloat. "What made you want to dwaw?" And before he could finish his turn during this game of social interaction, he added, "and youw name? You nevew gave it to me." He didn't know where the sass came from, but he felt it was significant given the cold-shoulder he had routinely been given during just about every transaction he encountered with this woman.
"You look tired."
Just fly right by his question, why don't she? Instead of shutting down, he studied her eyes. Did they sparkle with amusement from ignoring him? Had she even heard what he asked? When he couldn't see anything out of the ordinary, he went back to his inner monologue of bewildered thoughts: Okay? Was that supposed to mean something to him? He 'looked tired'. Why sure he did! He had just spent the last trial travelling and traversing and trekking through who knows what for the sake of being useful. What was she getting at, exactly?
Kotton folded his arms and frowned, but didn't keep himself from continuing to watch the young lady's artistic handiwork. He was going to be the bigger person here; he didn't want to incite any conflict and he surely didn't want to behave disrespectfully towards someone he wished to gather information from.
She made several heavy-handed lines. They were coupled with light-handed flicks of the wrist in the form of simple, soft and easily geometric lines. Then she rubbed the thick part of her palm- the space between her pinky and wrist- to smudge the lines so it looked shaded.
"Contrast is a concept where you create a strikingly different form against something other in juxtaposition or close association. I smudge the light linework in contrast to the darker lines to give obvious difference in luminance and/or abnormal appearance of a subject's true appearance.
"O-okay," Kotton stuttered, pointing at another section of her piece. His previous irritated had completely vanished. "What about this vacant spot hewe?"
The young woman looked up at him with shimmering eyes before glancing back down at her work in progress. "That is what I am trying to create next. It's a point of reflection, a glimmer so to speak. Like when you look at something and find your eyes unable to perceive what you're looking at because the sun is giving off a glare? Yea, that. I'm trying to recreate that."
The young man was bewildered. He was a man of deep and abstract thinking, but this was some extra-ethereal stuff here. Even in his dreams, he couldn't recreate such vision. This young woman's mind must be blistering unique ideas. If only he could get her to teach him how to be so talented. And perhaps give him a damn name in the process.
Head still way up in the clouds, and probably not coming down any trial soon, his mouth moved against his own accord. "Could you teach me these things?"
"I see you're a stranger to personal space, so firstly I must ask you to take a step back."
Kotton instinctively moved the back of his hand so that it came against his mouth. He nearly tripped himself by the urgency he made in taking steps away from her.
"Thank you," the woman accepted with a trifle of a sneer. He would put her discontent to the wayside for now, but he wouldn't forget it. She had quite an alarming temper, but he still really wanted to learn from someone as talented as she.
On a whim, the young woman’s hand moved gradually to sketch. It appeared, with tricky movement, to cross the filaments of the last illustration she had focused on- hair from young Kotton. Dear gods, he held such timorousness. She saw her hand hover over her work. Did she feel frustration? Displeasure? Self-consciousness? Time seemed to stand still as Kotton watched her contemplate. Then, finally... With a bit of imagination, her arm gestured across the paper. Her fingers curled- nay- clenched against her palm as she pressed her stick of charcoal against the flat papyrus with violent devotion. There was something she muttered under her breath, but Kotton was unable to catch what it was she had said. His focus was instead on how hardened and hell-bound her eyes were.
Suddenly she listed adjectives. "Strength? Passion? Responsibility?" And for a singular moment she uttered another: “Hope?”
She smiled wryly, an inside joke or something of which Kotton couldn't understand. He wasn't here for a palm reading or spiritual look into his future. He was here to drop off his acquaintance/aunt/family friend's horse and had only coincidentally met such a talented artist. Where was this going and what was he still doing here if not to assume he would be taught of a young talent's ways?
*fancied is another term for like and horses can like someone based on the vibrant colours they wear
His heart rate had resolved itself into a normal pulse akin to those who were notably resting against sofas and beds and lounge chairs. Still, he wasn't sure where his trial was taking him. He had admitted his acceptance to the side of what could be a lovely young woman who had artistry skills he hadn't found in anyone other than that of a random homeless guy who made caricatures of people who wandered the streets, but this definition was open ended, without final punctuation and very much up for debate. Regardless, he was more than enthusiastic about what would be shown to him, even if it pertained to horses (a recent interest, but one that wouldn't hold so long as the young man's mind continued to wander).
Without a second to waste, and as soon as he had stationed himself directly behind her shoulder, he watched carefully as the young artist raised the work she had in progress and compared it to the living subject she had so diligently been trying to capture. Eventually, she slid her journal back down, laid it flat across her lap, and added a few hayward lines of which Kotton couldn't tell as to their purpose. What she had already drawn seemed perfect enough, so what was the need for additional detail? Speaking of detail... his lips lingered across the fair maiden's face, especially her lips.
"Would you mind not being so attractive?"
Kotton was taken aback at first. He didn't think he had dressed that glamorously. But as soon as the compliment had reached his ego, it quickly died. He realised that the horse had fancied* him, her eyes latched onto his attire the way butterflies flocked to florescence colours and floral patterns.
He admitted a soft apology before manouvering himself further behind the young lady- he was of a less distraction that way. That was when the young man's intrigue blossomed. He peered over the lady artist's shoulder and was instantly mesmerised by the careful linework and even more circumspective shading delegated to the edges of the design. He came to understand that art was more than just vision; steady hands and accurate depiction were also important when it came crafting a unique and original piece. His eyes lit up as a smile pulled at the edges of his lips. He licked his bottom lip, still chapped from the trials he spent forgetting to moisturize, as he assiduously observed the sketch. Everything was proportional. It was almost as if the horse had been taken out of reality and been placed inside this woman's personal art book.
“Wow,” he breathed.
"I use heavier strokes of shading to demonstrate something as farther away and I use lighter strokes to make it seem like something is closer. It's all about perspective," she informed with a flick of her ultra-white locks. "I just really wanted her to look at me so I can capture the perfect image of her portrait."
So perspective and viewpoint, an exact placement in space and time, were the important factors that made a representation of reality seem almost unreal. Kotton cleared his throat and took a step back. He didn't want to invade the young artist's space as she continued to work on capturing every tedious detail.
"Don't fret," she said abruptly. "I'm good at working under pressure."
With this in mind, Kotton closed the gap and took the kilometre he had been given- he kept his chin only a few millimetres from the young lady, intrigue still sparking like fuses tied to barrels of gunpowder. He was going to witness this artwork firsthand. Or he would die trying.
Sitting where she was, the young man watched her stand up a little straighter. She adjusted her shoulders so they were more equilateral than the horizontal beams that kept a tavern standing upright. He watched as her face brightened. Her cheeks grew rosy with the fever of being given inspiration someone. Kotton couldn't help but smile with her, even if it was a toothy grin, fringe offsetting the righthand side of his vision in a goofy manner.
"What's youw name?" she finally asked, pivoting on her chair to look directly at him.
There was no delay in his reply. "Kotton."
"Well, Kotton," she said, voice changing with mild hesitation. "Can you hold onto that look you're making?"
He immediately became embarrassed, self-aware, instantly reminded of whatever face he was making and thereby instinctively changed it out of fear of it being the wrong one.
"Nope, no, it's gone now," the young woman muttered. Her mouth twisted into one of disappointment. She took an unhappy toke of her pipe before pivoting back towards the horses that stood behind their respective gates. She would have to continue with what she had initially been working on.
Kotton was in shock. He blubbered, stuttered, and blustered words that made sense to no one, not even himself. He wasn't for such a request! Whatever- he banished the thought in time to the young woman flipping a page in her booklet. A fresh page that awaited her next move. There she began to detail the shaggy, yet slightly curly, yet relatively straight mane of a young man who had no idea that what his portraiture was still in the works of being drawn. She had just framed his face with the blunt end of her stick of charcoal before using the sharper bit to detail the corners of his eyes.
Kotton felt a small breeze bustle the baby hairs of his hairline. He uttered a gentle sigh. His thoughts naturally fell to a true question and not some filler inquiry made to keep conversation afloat. "What made you want to dwaw?" And before he could finish his turn during this game of social interaction, he added, "and youw name? You nevew gave it to me." He didn't know where the sass came from, but he felt it was significant given the cold-shoulder he had routinely been given during just about every transaction he encountered with this woman.
"You look tired."
Just fly right by his question, why don't she? Instead of shutting down, he studied her eyes. Did they sparkle with amusement from ignoring him? Had she even heard what he asked? When he couldn't see anything out of the ordinary, he went back to his inner monologue of bewildered thoughts: Okay? Was that supposed to mean something to him? He 'looked tired'. Why sure he did! He had just spent the last trial travelling and traversing and trekking through who knows what for the sake of being useful. What was she getting at, exactly?
Kotton folded his arms and frowned, but didn't keep himself from continuing to watch the young lady's artistic handiwork. He was going to be the bigger person here; he didn't want to incite any conflict and he surely didn't want to behave disrespectfully towards someone he wished to gather information from.
She made several heavy-handed lines. They were coupled with light-handed flicks of the wrist in the form of simple, soft and easily geometric lines. Then she rubbed the thick part of her palm- the space between her pinky and wrist- to smudge the lines so it looked shaded.
"Contrast is a concept where you create a strikingly different form against something other in juxtaposition or close association. I smudge the light linework in contrast to the darker lines to give obvious difference in luminance and/or abnormal appearance of a subject's true appearance.
"O-okay," Kotton stuttered, pointing at another section of her piece. His previous irritated had completely vanished. "What about this vacant spot hewe?"
The young woman looked up at him with shimmering eyes before glancing back down at her work in progress. "That is what I am trying to create next. It's a point of reflection, a glimmer so to speak. Like when you look at something and find your eyes unable to perceive what you're looking at because the sun is giving off a glare? Yea, that. I'm trying to recreate that."
The young man was bewildered. He was a man of deep and abstract thinking, but this was some extra-ethereal stuff here. Even in his dreams, he couldn't recreate such vision. This young woman's mind must be blistering unique ideas. If only he could get her to teach him how to be so talented. And perhaps give him a damn name in the process.
Head still way up in the clouds, and probably not coming down any trial soon, his mouth moved against his own accord. "Could you teach me these things?"
"I see you're a stranger to personal space, so firstly I must ask you to take a step back."
Kotton instinctively moved the back of his hand so that it came against his mouth. He nearly tripped himself by the urgency he made in taking steps away from her.
"Thank you," the woman accepted with a trifle of a sneer. He would put her discontent to the wayside for now, but he wouldn't forget it. She had quite an alarming temper, but he still really wanted to learn from someone as talented as she.
On a whim, the young woman’s hand moved gradually to sketch. It appeared, with tricky movement, to cross the filaments of the last illustration she had focused on- hair from young Kotton. Dear gods, he held such timorousness. She saw her hand hover over her work. Did she feel frustration? Displeasure? Self-consciousness? Time seemed to stand still as Kotton watched her contemplate. Then, finally... With a bit of imagination, her arm gestured across the paper. Her fingers curled- nay- clenched against her palm as she pressed her stick of charcoal against the flat papyrus with violent devotion. There was something she muttered under her breath, but Kotton was unable to catch what it was she had said. His focus was instead on how hardened and hell-bound her eyes were.
Suddenly she listed adjectives. "Strength? Passion? Responsibility?" And for a singular moment she uttered another: “Hope?”
She smiled wryly, an inside joke or something of which Kotton couldn't understand. He wasn't here for a palm reading or spiritual look into his future. He was here to drop off his acquaintance/aunt/family friend's horse and had only coincidentally met such a talented artist. Where was this going and what was he still doing here if not to assume he would be taught of a young talent's ways?
*fancied is another term for like and horses can like someone based on the vibrant colours they wear
