Thursday: September 27, 2007
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Who: Niccolo and OPEN or narrative!
When: Early evening
Where: Van'taurë lake
What: A good swim to clear his head
In Elysium one day ran into another for Niccolo. There were no servants, no parties, no girls to visit down at the docks, no family and most of all no endless ocean for Niccolo to lose himself in. Everyday he woke around mid-morning, fixed himself some pathetic excuse for breakfast and then painted or sketched. His sketchbooks were almost filled to the brim and he didn’t have much of anything to trade to acquire more supplies. He filled in every space of white within them, and the hand full of canvas’ that he had he re-painted again and again. Most of them were portraits of Noel. He painted the girl, who was assigned to his hand in marriage, in several different settings. Yet her face was always the same, the terrified expression he’d last seen on her face when was being taken away in the darkness.
He would line up all six canvas’ and paint her portrait on each one until he reached the last canvas and then he would walk along them, the end of his paintbrush pressed thoughtfully between his teeth. He would search her eyes for something, hoping that in one of the paintings he would find what he was looking for. He didn’t really know what it was that he was looking for but he knew that if he found it he would finally be able to feelbetter.
It was on Thursday afternoon that he ran out of paint. The last color he had left was red and so that six portraits he painted that day were a rather disturbing sight. When he stood back to look at them it was with disgust. In the failing light the bright red paint had darkened and it looked as if they had all been painted with blood. He threw the paintbrush down, not caring that it splattered the floor with the remains of his red paint. There was hardly anything left to eat in the house and he had fully exhausted his art supplies, unless of course he resorted to drawing on the walls with the remaining nub of his pencil.
He muttered some curses in Italian and pulled back his hair in frustration. He felt like he was going crazy, like he was on some sort of precipice. There was nothing left for him in this hollow shell of house that had been meant for voice other than his own. He busied himself in grabbing a towel and clumsily pulling on his now scuffed dress shoes. It had been a few days since he’d been to the lake. Of course his parents had to choose the cottages farthest from the salt water lake so if he wanted to have a decent swim he had to walk for twenty minutes at a brisk pace.
( Niccolo left the cottage without locking the door behind him. )
When: Early evening
Where: Van'taurë lake
What: A good swim to clear his head
In Elysium one day ran into another for Niccolo. There were no servants, no parties, no girls to visit down at the docks, no family and most of all no endless ocean for Niccolo to lose himself in. Everyday he woke around mid-morning, fixed himself some pathetic excuse for breakfast and then painted or sketched. His sketchbooks were almost filled to the brim and he didn’t have much of anything to trade to acquire more supplies. He filled in every space of white within them, and the hand full of canvas’ that he had he re-painted again and again. Most of them were portraits of Noel. He painted the girl, who was assigned to his hand in marriage, in several different settings. Yet her face was always the same, the terrified expression he’d last seen on her face when was being taken away in the darkness.
He would line up all six canvas’ and paint her portrait on each one until he reached the last canvas and then he would walk along them, the end of his paintbrush pressed thoughtfully between his teeth. He would search her eyes for something, hoping that in one of the paintings he would find what he was looking for. He didn’t really know what it was that he was looking for but he knew that if he found it he would finally be able to feel
It was on Thursday afternoon that he ran out of paint. The last color he had left was red and so that six portraits he painted that day were a rather disturbing sight. When he stood back to look at them it was with disgust. In the failing light the bright red paint had darkened and it looked as if they had all been painted with blood. He threw the paintbrush down, not caring that it splattered the floor with the remains of his red paint. There was hardly anything left to eat in the house and he had fully exhausted his art supplies, unless of course he resorted to drawing on the walls with the remaining nub of his pencil.
He muttered some curses in Italian and pulled back his hair in frustration. He felt like he was going crazy, like he was on some sort of precipice. There was nothing left for him in this hollow shell of house that had been meant for voice other than his own. He busied himself in grabbing a towel and clumsily pulling on his now scuffed dress shoes. It had been a few days since he’d been to the lake. Of course his parents had to choose the cottages farthest from the salt water lake so if he wanted to have a decent swim he had to walk for twenty minutes at a brisk pace.
( Niccolo left the cottage without locking the door behind him. )