Re: Sam/Eames: art class
Yeah, nah, Sam hadn't cultivated anything like patience. She would probs be old and just as jittery. Yeah, well, BEFORE, when getting old was a thing that would happen, and that wasn't the case now. She would be gappy blonde forever, huh? Unless someone staked her or something, and Sam wasn't maudlin like Daniel about that. She didn't like FORESEE DOOM. Nah, shit was good, and she was bright in front of that canvas. Old shit, yeah? Beneath the skin, but the girl sitting there wasn't dark shadows or anything. Sam didn't know HOW to be dark shadows. She captured them hella good on canvas, but that wasn't the same thing as being dark herself. She had it IN her, but it wasn't HER. It was like some fucking layer of paint that didn't belong, and so she'd colored the fuck over it. Oil paint was good for that, for covering, because it was hella forgiving.
"I don't like canals." Which, yeah, fair. Canals weren't her thing. It was simplistic maybe, but it was all she could give the guy that'd been flashing his cock to a bunch of students minutes earlier. Sam was an open book, heart on her sleeve, yadda, but she wasn't deep thoughts, huh? She just knew she didn't like the paintings, which probs wasn't going to satisfy Jake here. So, yeah, nah, canals weren't her thing.
"'Why not' is a hella shit reason to do something," she said, still working out dark age spots on skin around eyeball on canvas. Liver spots, huh? That was what her moms had called them when she looked in the mirror. Sam made them heavier than they were, because it was interpretation. The longer she talked to this guy, the more the eyeball would change. "Nah, it doesn't get a person's name," she finally said of the eyeball. The eyeball was a concept, huh?
She looked over at him with inky blue bright with entertainment. "Eames. Like the chair." Sculpture was one of the first classes Sam had taken, and she was still into that shit. It required a LOT of studio space tho, and so she hadn't gotten into it bigtime again or anything. But, yeah, there had been a chapter on influential furniture as art.
Sam looked down at the proffered hand, and then she looked up at his face. "Yeah, nah, I don't touch strange guys, baby." She didn't. It was a THING, but she did smile up at him in a gappy way that said she wasn't pissed or anything, she was just asserting her boundaries. "Sam. S.A.M. if you're looking to buy some of my shit." She spelled that out. S-period-A-period-M-period, and her initials had worked out to be a hella good painter's mark.