Re: Sam/Eames: art class
Sam waited hella patient, huh? She was twitch and jump usually, limbs that didn't like being still and she was always in motion. Like some fucking bird that would fall out of the sky if it stopped flapping its wings, she was perpetual USUALLY. But not now, huh? She didn't jiggle a foot or wiggle on her own stool. Nah, at pad and canvas Sam was stillness. She even thrashed around when she slept, leaving bedsheets pulled free of corners and throwing blankets to the floor, but here she was still. Art, yeah? It was the one thing that calmed the maelstrom, and she just kept looking from the guy's eye and back to her sketch, adding grooves and depth and variation in iris and indicated by darkening of darkness in charcoal.
"Algernon." Sam didn't know about Algernon and his flowers. Nah, to her Algernon was a landscape painter that she wasn't hella fond of. Ok, so the guy hadn't romanticized shit, which she approved of in a hella big way, but she didn't dig his canals or whatever. "That's a painter, and he's kinda not my thing. Why Algernon? People will ask, yeah?" She set aside her charcoal and lifted her brush. She mixed browns and oranges and reds and yellows, and she swirled his skin onto the palette as she talked. "Like YEARS from now in some class, they'll talk about it. They'll be all 'why Algernon?' and they'll try to make something hella important come from the word. So, yeah, why Algernon?"
Sam had gotten hella confident about her painting, so, yeah, she was thoughtless about saying they'd be studying her shit at some point down the line. Guggenheim had assured that shit, even if her fam and people didn't get that what she did was important. Whatever, because now SHE got that it was important. "I don't think your name is Algernon," she added, just in case he was gonna try that shit. He didn't look like a fucking Algernon. "You look kinda like a Jake." Not really, but whatever.