Ficlet: To the Point (WK, PG)
For indelicateink, an AU Weiss Kreuz 1920s ficlet, in which Crawford paints his irascible model.
To the Point
It is difficult to stop sketching, or to put down my brushes when I rough out some preliminary color schemes. My training in watercolors is at least good for catching where I wish to go, even if I do not feel it right for painting him as I see him. I imagine the richness of oils and how they capture the sheen of sweat on flesh.
“My leg hurts,” Schuldig says, rubbing at the muscles of his inner thigh.
I keep my eye on the paint. “Stretch for a minute then get back into position.”
“It fucking hurts,” he says again. “What the fuck is this pose meant to be?”
“You’ve just hurled a javelin - I want you to keep those muscles tight.”
He mutters about the pretensions of artists and stretches, bending his leg up behind him, seizing his ankle to pull the muscles of his thigh further. I quickly sketch the way he balances, and he rolls his eyes.
“Why don’t I just fucking live here so you can draw me every minute of the damn day?”
Why not? I think, and keep it behind my teeth. He is - of course - joking, and I need some privacy and there is not enough room here for two so it would be entirely inconvenient and he is surely joking.
“Do you snore?” I ask, keeping my voice light.
“Do you?”
I laugh and the moment has passed. He gets back into position, his leg straight, the muscles taut.
I imagine painting him in the early light of dawn.
To the Point
It is difficult to stop sketching, or to put down my brushes when I rough out some preliminary color schemes. My training in watercolors is at least good for catching where I wish to go, even if I do not feel it right for painting him as I see him. I imagine the richness of oils and how they capture the sheen of sweat on flesh.
“My leg hurts,” Schuldig says, rubbing at the muscles of his inner thigh.
I keep my eye on the paint. “Stretch for a minute then get back into position.”
“It fucking hurts,” he says again. “What the fuck is this pose meant to be?”
“You’ve just hurled a javelin - I want you to keep those muscles tight.”
He mutters about the pretensions of artists and stretches, bending his leg up behind him, seizing his ankle to pull the muscles of his thigh further. I quickly sketch the way he balances, and he rolls his eyes.
“Why don’t I just fucking live here so you can draw me every minute of the damn day?”
Why not? I think, and keep it behind my teeth. He is - of course - joking, and I need some privacy and there is not enough room here for two so it would be entirely inconvenient and he is surely joking.
“Do you snore?” I ask, keeping my voice light.
“Do you?”
I laugh and the moment has passed. He gets back into position, his leg straight, the muscles taut.
I imagine painting him in the early light of dawn.