Re: Sam/Eames: art class
Eames raised both eyebrows now. Opportunism, he had a great deal of respect for. It was gutsy, to hold onto whichever rope was thrown out to drag you along and into an opportunity, darling. Eames had plenty of rope-burn over the years, but he was amused at the confidence and the tone that suggested he was entirely ignorant of the point of the art. He was, darling, but he rather liked the fact she made it absolutely without ambiguity. There were many things Eames didn't know. Some, he missed in the absence of having them in his arsenal. Others? Well, there was only so much time in the world for education.
"Clearly not, darling. What's the most important thing about it to you?" He shrugged once more, his finger circling the flattened wedge of metal in his pocket in a non-noticeable gesture.
"I'm not very good at art appreciation. But I don't want beautiful shit," he said, echoing her tone, the way the syllables clipped off her tongue. "And I don't need an artist to flatter me." There was a glint there that didn't match the wealthy clothes. Eames rather liked people who said 'no'. And the eyeball and the story behind it, it had nothing to do with him. Sam, sharp-teeth and bubblegum smile Sam had taken it into her hands in a way that the little artists who had sketched and painted all that they saw, had not. It was self-interest and a tiny bit ruthless to strip away the person from the form, which was, darling, what they were probably meant to be learning. She'd done it.
He laughed. The attitude swirled in the back of his throat, and the flattened London returned. Eames shook off louche the way a dog loses water lodged in its coat and he cocked his head to look at the eyeball taking shape once more.
"Yes, you did. And I want to see it. Not poor Murphy here, but the art that's for sale."