chronicle_tenko
Just Idiot
- Joined
- Apr 7, 2006
- Posts
- 12,402
Marcus hated this part. The openings, where the canvases he painted were gawked at and judged. By eyes that barely knew how to avoid bad meat, but still thought they could tell true beauty. Eyes belonging to dimwitted rich crowds who cooed, and fussed over his paintings. Hardly because they liked him, but because you needed to collect artists that mattered. They called him the next Rembrandt. He wondered if they could tell the difference. these were eyes untrained enough that they could simply do what he was attempting to while he waited. Watch TV.
The TV blared.
That was all it ever did, he seemed to think. Was hoot, and make loud noises while more important things tried to happen. In this case it was reporting on the opening of his new gallery show. The one he was happily avoiding downstairs, to see his model for a last time. She was walking up teh stairs towards him. One foot in front of the other. Her dress barely on to start, and soon he'd make it pool on the floor. She was pretty, in that modern sense of the word. His agent certainly had thought she would sell, and that man seemed to be right. The oil painting of her half turned, was being auctioned now, for several hundred thousand. And the bidding was still slowly climbing, dollar by dollar. Tens of thousands at a time. His model was squealing softly, watching the proceedings. Though whether she was squealing from the excitement of her image garnering such a high price, or his hands slowly baring her body for the last time he wasn't sure. His fingers played with the soft skin of her arms as she fell back towards him. Her arm reaching up to grab his head, looping it behind his neck as she bent to pull him for a kiss. One he didn't respond to. His hands stopped before they touched the swell of her breasts.
"Who is that?"
For once the TV had something to show him. Something more intriguing than the standard fare. Even more interesting than the final meeting with his former model. His next model.
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Arturo Torres worked tirelessly for his best client. Marcus might have been infuriating, mercurial and whimsical, but he made money, and his eye for beauty, for the finding of feature and form, was second to none. He wanted this young man for his next paintings. And he'd have him. Marcus always did, no matter what the issues seemed to be. This last excursion had actually been Arturo's find, and profitable as it had been, Marcus' eye never lied. If he saw something people would adore it.
In this case however it was cheating slightly. Sebastian Lecavalier was already a top model. Used to the catwalk and the cooing and clawing of the clothing world, this would be not be the first time he posed for someone, there was even a list fee. For A day. Marcus wanted this young man for nearly a month. 8 hours or more every day, to stand and simply pose. Nothing new for the young man, but certainly for his agency it was. Their fee was impossible, 30 days of modeling was close to 150,000 dollars. The Last show was more than profitable enough to cover it, but the studios would scream bloody murder if he tried to push that through. Still, the publicity of the fee, and the intense natures of both men. Not to mention Marcus passion for nude Oils. This would not be the first time he had painted men. But it would certainly be the first one since he became the artist he was now. Known worldwide. Rembrandt Re-incarnate. Especially with how often his pictures were picked up by periodicals. Reproductions of his faces went everywhere.
Arturo smiled as he began to cut a check. He trusted Marcus. This would go over well.
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Marcus twirled a brush over his fingers. Idly watching the blank canvas with a picture of Sebastian's face on it. The high cheekbones. That smooth prominent chin. He was a picture of classic beauty. In his vision the lines began to form, crisp cut, and simple, the way everything began in his creation. The soft simple branch of straight lines to curves, like a river, flowing to a thousands trickles the explosion of simplicity that makes the complex. The perfect, the over lapping thread that when unwound is a single strand. But together, taken together is the muscles, blood, and skin. The fire and form, that makes man.
Marcus stopped looking, those eyes that didn't blink still staring from the center of the page. He stood and took a small step then another, carefully adjusting his pants so he would not chafe, until he could take the picture down. It was not the same. It made him unhappy, and he would remain so until the young man was here. In his studio, under his brush. Naked and waiting for his own release. To be transmitted to immortality on oiled canvas. The thought made him smile as he applied a brush stroke to the canvas and left it. The first touch of many.
The TV blared.
That was all it ever did, he seemed to think. Was hoot, and make loud noises while more important things tried to happen. In this case it was reporting on the opening of his new gallery show. The one he was happily avoiding downstairs, to see his model for a last time. She was walking up teh stairs towards him. One foot in front of the other. Her dress barely on to start, and soon he'd make it pool on the floor. She was pretty, in that modern sense of the word. His agent certainly had thought she would sell, and that man seemed to be right. The oil painting of her half turned, was being auctioned now, for several hundred thousand. And the bidding was still slowly climbing, dollar by dollar. Tens of thousands at a time. His model was squealing softly, watching the proceedings. Though whether she was squealing from the excitement of her image garnering such a high price, or his hands slowly baring her body for the last time he wasn't sure. His fingers played with the soft skin of her arms as she fell back towards him. Her arm reaching up to grab his head, looping it behind his neck as she bent to pull him for a kiss. One he didn't respond to. His hands stopped before they touched the swell of her breasts.
"Who is that?"
For once the TV had something to show him. Something more intriguing than the standard fare. Even more interesting than the final meeting with his former model. His next model.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Arturo Torres worked tirelessly for his best client. Marcus might have been infuriating, mercurial and whimsical, but he made money, and his eye for beauty, for the finding of feature and form, was second to none. He wanted this young man for his next paintings. And he'd have him. Marcus always did, no matter what the issues seemed to be. This last excursion had actually been Arturo's find, and profitable as it had been, Marcus' eye never lied. If he saw something people would adore it.
In this case however it was cheating slightly. Sebastian Lecavalier was already a top model. Used to the catwalk and the cooing and clawing of the clothing world, this would be not be the first time he posed for someone, there was even a list fee. For A day. Marcus wanted this young man for nearly a month. 8 hours or more every day, to stand and simply pose. Nothing new for the young man, but certainly for his agency it was. Their fee was impossible, 30 days of modeling was close to 150,000 dollars. The Last show was more than profitable enough to cover it, but the studios would scream bloody murder if he tried to push that through. Still, the publicity of the fee, and the intense natures of both men. Not to mention Marcus passion for nude Oils. This would not be the first time he had painted men. But it would certainly be the first one since he became the artist he was now. Known worldwide. Rembrandt Re-incarnate. Especially with how often his pictures were picked up by periodicals. Reproductions of his faces went everywhere.
Arturo smiled as he began to cut a check. He trusted Marcus. This would go over well.
---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Marcus twirled a brush over his fingers. Idly watching the blank canvas with a picture of Sebastian's face on it. The high cheekbones. That smooth prominent chin. He was a picture of classic beauty. In his vision the lines began to form, crisp cut, and simple, the way everything began in his creation. The soft simple branch of straight lines to curves, like a river, flowing to a thousands trickles the explosion of simplicity that makes the complex. The perfect, the over lapping thread that when unwound is a single strand. But together, taken together is the muscles, blood, and skin. The fire and form, that makes man.
Marcus stopped looking, those eyes that didn't blink still staring from the center of the page. He stood and took a small step then another, carefully adjusting his pants so he would not chafe, until he could take the picture down. It was not the same. It made him unhappy, and he would remain so until the young man was here. In his studio, under his brush. Naked and waiting for his own release. To be transmitted to immortality on oiled canvas. The thought made him smile as he applied a brush stroke to the canvas and left it. The first touch of many.