Jake is (![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/userinfo.gif){kind=small} derelict) wrote in ![[info]](https://www.insanejournal.com/img/community.gif){kind=small} rooms, |
There weren't no art-galleries in Jake's home town. First time he'd ever seen art on walls, big and real and glistening with paint, instead of some print pinned down in glossy paper, it had been on the road. He'd been dirty and all over dust, and maybe too untidy for the big, white space but he'd stopped someplace they'd done a show all water and looked and looked at all that blue and purple and yellow and green until the place closed end of the night.
He heard the ripple of liquid and it didn't bother him any now he figured it was just the hell-beast (who wasn't anything out of hell, now he'd got to know him) and he looked at his own canvas, real critical. There wasn't nothing about art that was simple except the way it made you feel. The painting made him feel good, in a soft, petaled way in the center of his chest, and he grinned, running fingers through his bangs to shove them out of the way.
"Yeah. Looks cool."