In Her Linen Dress of White.
Stoke the fire, charcoal never found it's way so foul on black sand; no time for taint. Gather around and I'll tell you a story; not of usury nor benefition, not of vindiction nor validation, just a simple tale of the colours of human interraction.
Yes, I will recant that it is true, of course it is all true, hence why you are reading and hoping that it will hit home, or not. Either or.
She was a day tripper, that one; one way ticket - not so much to Hell, but certainly to planes unknown to me. As a day tripper, she would often visit spectrums and return with a pallette of something new to feast eyes upon. She brought the basics, very nearly dodging pastelles at times, yet always being of fluroescence herself. We had the pots, and we mixed ambrosia.
Black came first, the beginning blemish to both her dress and our portrait; stark against the white, the opposite; a void that spawned within us both opened that day, drawing all colours in close proximity to it, recklessly.
Then came red, once again stark and different; the loss of something and the gain of another; the void was naught near filled and the white was rapidly losing credence. Mauve spawned in the absence and blood red remained against the old parts of clear canvas.
After the initial meld, a sickly cyan doused edges of mauve and the blots lay dormant for a short while; the undercoat of the canvas and the stain had been set; much had the scene.
We rolled over, took a breath and decided what would suit the mood next; not ready for something warm and comfortable, we opted for electric blue. We charged it against the pane to try and fill the void, an energetic display of compassionate colouring, we weren't prepared for the next facet. Time passed and once again, the black sapped colour from our world; fading into a deep blue, not harmonious, but malignant, eroding the colour before and almost setting a monochrome of stolid, stale blue. We took a break at that point, deciding that both her garments and our canvas had held quite enough oculatory stimulation for the day.
Much as any other project, once we had started and stopped, it was hard to pick up again; but mutual pride in our prior activities drove us forth; enough to get back to the task. Strangely, there was far more fade to her dress than to the canvas after the day of solace; yet, both eager to continue, we set awash our board with the yellow of a new day, the sheer jubilation of being able to continue this entire foray overstimulated both of us as we watched the previous swathe of blue bathe in this light hue.
Green followed, far deeper than lime, yet plenty of hexes lighter than forest. A colour that we both seemed to hold very dear, it was warm, comfortable and set the mood for a resistance to fade - This was completely inverse to those around who were made utterly sick from the colour. Critics should stick to their own art, thankyou very much.
Once again, we dropped the project for a while, too content in viewing this creation of our own - For far too long. She needed to take another day trip, it seemed, for she had run out of new colour. I, too immersed in the work, advised her against it. A day tripper is a day tripper, though, in rising to leave for a breath of fresh air, she knocked acetone over our piece. A slight fade set in to our comfortable deep green and other colours far underneath rose to the surface, conjugating into a pallid off-texture working - Such was the beginning of the end in our project; what we had prior seen could not be replaced and we were left with something that was the sum of all we had created, yet contorted and warped into something that wasn't "our" picture, and was certainly not our picture perfect.
We sat together, reminiscing times in the leadup to our masterpiece, knowing all too well that the only real memory we had left was stained to her once-white clothing. The loss was too much, and there was a creative difference that spawned the had caused a rift; no longer in creative tune, we parted ways.
Due to the unbearable loss of both the day tripper and our production, I decided to habitually drink acetone myself. Memories didn't wash away and nor did my colour; instead, I just got sick and puked all over what had once been the most beautiful painting I had ever seen. I guess we kick nostalgic keepsakes around sometimes, ahh well, bite the hand that feeds.
Some days I think of that dress of hers, wondering if she wears shreds of it around her wrist.
A reminder of the ambition and stuggle for a pretty portrait.
A reminder of how something so pristine can be sullied so easily.
A reminder of what pictures do, regardless of how beautiful.
Hell, seems like I need some reminders myself, just to keep those memories in check.
At least like pictures, all memories fade to grey.
Yes, I will recant that it is true, of course it is all true, hence why you are reading and hoping that it will hit home, or not. Either or.
She was a day tripper, that one; one way ticket - not so much to Hell, but certainly to planes unknown to me. As a day tripper, she would often visit spectrums and return with a pallette of something new to feast eyes upon. She brought the basics, very nearly dodging pastelles at times, yet always being of fluroescence herself. We had the pots, and we mixed ambrosia.
Black came first, the beginning blemish to both her dress and our portrait; stark against the white, the opposite; a void that spawned within us both opened that day, drawing all colours in close proximity to it, recklessly.
Then came red, once again stark and different; the loss of something and the gain of another; the void was naught near filled and the white was rapidly losing credence. Mauve spawned in the absence and blood red remained against the old parts of clear canvas.
After the initial meld, a sickly cyan doused edges of mauve and the blots lay dormant for a short while; the undercoat of the canvas and the stain had been set; much had the scene.
We rolled over, took a breath and decided what would suit the mood next; not ready for something warm and comfortable, we opted for electric blue. We charged it against the pane to try and fill the void, an energetic display of compassionate colouring, we weren't prepared for the next facet. Time passed and once again, the black sapped colour from our world; fading into a deep blue, not harmonious, but malignant, eroding the colour before and almost setting a monochrome of stolid, stale blue. We took a break at that point, deciding that both her garments and our canvas had held quite enough oculatory stimulation for the day.
Much as any other project, once we had started and stopped, it was hard to pick up again; but mutual pride in our prior activities drove us forth; enough to get back to the task. Strangely, there was far more fade to her dress than to the canvas after the day of solace; yet, both eager to continue, we set awash our board with the yellow of a new day, the sheer jubilation of being able to continue this entire foray overstimulated both of us as we watched the previous swathe of blue bathe in this light hue.
Green followed, far deeper than lime, yet plenty of hexes lighter than forest. A colour that we both seemed to hold very dear, it was warm, comfortable and set the mood for a resistance to fade - This was completely inverse to those around who were made utterly sick from the colour. Critics should stick to their own art, thankyou very much.
Once again, we dropped the project for a while, too content in viewing this creation of our own - For far too long. She needed to take another day trip, it seemed, for she had run out of new colour. I, too immersed in the work, advised her against it. A day tripper is a day tripper, though, in rising to leave for a breath of fresh air, she knocked acetone over our piece. A slight fade set in to our comfortable deep green and other colours far underneath rose to the surface, conjugating into a pallid off-texture working - Such was the beginning of the end in our project; what we had prior seen could not be replaced and we were left with something that was the sum of all we had created, yet contorted and warped into something that wasn't "our" picture, and was certainly not our picture perfect.
We sat together, reminiscing times in the leadup to our masterpiece, knowing all too well that the only real memory we had left was stained to her once-white clothing. The loss was too much, and there was a creative difference that spawned the had caused a rift; no longer in creative tune, we parted ways.
Due to the unbearable loss of both the day tripper and our production, I decided to habitually drink acetone myself. Memories didn't wash away and nor did my colour; instead, I just got sick and puked all over what had once been the most beautiful painting I had ever seen. I guess we kick nostalgic keepsakes around sometimes, ahh well, bite the hand that feeds.
Some days I think of that dress of hers, wondering if she wears shreds of it around her wrist.
A reminder of the ambition and stuggle for a pretty portrait.
A reminder of how something so pristine can be sullied so easily.
A reminder of what pictures do, regardless of how beautiful.
Hell, seems like I need some reminders myself, just to keep those memories in check.
At least like pictures, all memories fade to grey.