caricature
inside: our first b2st fic, metaphors, art and envy.
bgm
His preferred place is on the steps of the art museum - there’s people there in wild costume, vibrant makeup, gleaming jewelry, glossy leather. It’s almost utopian there, with the worn marble steps leading into the abstract gallery; whoever comes comes for a reason.
When he’s not painting the paintings to sell as inexpensive replicas, he paints them, with his uncanny gift for accurate representation, colours a creative battleground on the spare newspaper he uses as a palette. He paints the noises he hears in the background - grey-blue chattering, violet exclamations, pale-green whispers reflected off of the glass highrises on the other side of the road, where the businessmen enter at seven every morning and exit the way they came at six. But he pays no heed to the more organized left lane of the road - the chaos on the right, the old freedom, is what he lives by. It’s been that way for three years and he doesn’t expect or want it to change, because every day is a change in itself.
The biggest change comes one nippy September, when he’s packing up for the night to quietly enter the museum and paint by the hanging lights the artwork on the walls. For once in those entire three years there’s a cold padlock on the door, and a poster right above it.
Yong Junhyung Exhibition 14th - 19th September
Locations exhibited: Paris, Florence, Beijing, Tokyo and now Seoul!
Walk-in entry; ticket prices vary.
So with nothing to do, and eyes shining in the lamplight’s glow he paints the poster on the door, drawing the thick-framed black glasses in exaggerated, abstract distortion. It’s a form of mockery to this Yong Junhyung he’s never heard of - neither has he heard of Paris or Florence - so he paints with sarcastic strokes and stipples until all there is is hasty strokes and a striking head of lavender, because he can’t bring himself to taint the regrettably attractive hair.
-
He doesn’t earn half as much the next five days, because no, everyone’s too busy to go inside and look at oh-so-glorious-Yong-Junhyung’s abstract expressionistic bullshit to even notice the redhead with empty canvases by his feet. Sometimes he even counts down the minutes till closing hour, because even though nobody will notice him then at least they’ll all be gone, and he can paint the empty street with golden air spilling onto the rain soaked pavement where he had to let some canvases bleed into the rain.
It’s on the last day of the exhibition - he’s sure of it, there’s more people at the museum than ever before - that he tiptoes and looks through the glass to find a familiar head of lavender nodding and smiling with a thin flute of champagne in his hand as he makes his way to a raised platform.
Good evening, he begins, and I’d like to thank you all for coming to this last night of the show. It’s been such a journey, from art school back to my humble origins, and I can’t be happier to have returned to this wonderful place bursting with life and energy. You’ll notice that it translates subliminally into some of my work, and I do not think I’ll bother you for much longer and let you draw your own conclusions to the prompts I humbly supply. Again, many thanks, and I hope that you do enjoy the evening.
With the last words he seems to look straight through the crowd, the glass, into and out of Hyunseung. He can’t help but mutter pompous bastard under his breath as he tosses stray colours into his bag for the night.
Excuse me?
Motherfucker, now what, he mutters, turning around only to face the purple-haired bastard again. Yes?
He’ll tell himself that it was only the streetlamps playing tricks on him later on, but he sees the - grudgingly, but yes, he deserves the title - artist’s lips curve into an amused smile as he follows the line of his arm and to his caricature drawn four nights ago.
I think this might be yours? Junhyung laughs, and it only irritates Hyunseung more. It is, he replies curtly before turning on his heel with an airy I painted it, it’s quite accurate isn’t it.
Can I keep it? Junhyung asks lightly, running a hand through his hair as Hyunseung can’t help but notice that it’s splattered with fresh paint. Indifferently he nods, still walking until Junhyung calls again. Wouldn’t you like to sign it? Then I’ll have something to remember you by...
He laughs, a sound inadvertently bitter in the cool air. I’m afraid I’m not as significant in the world of art as you are, Mr. Yong. And there’s not a second thought as he rounds the turn into an empty alley for the night; as if the encounter was of any consequence to lavender-haired Yong Junhyung.
Because even if it mattered to him, he won’t let it show. He won’t even use the colour lavender any more.
FINITE
orz what is this even