His art was the ultimate escapism. A means for the man to shed his daily troubles, to shed any thought that might perpetuate though his mind. A means for that very man to wipe the slate from thought and submerge himself in the cool, refreshing waters of inspiration. Though art, he stepped into an entirely different realm which possessed no time, nor urgency. A world where the frivolities of day to day life did not exist and he would feel nothing apart from the gnawing need to paint. There was nothing but him and the canvas for his mind was singular and the singularity was peace. He had set down to paint during the late hours of the day. As the sun began setting so did he, in hopes to occupy himself during the weight for his lover to come to him.
For his surface he chose not canvas this time, for that was expensive, but a plank of wood that had been loitering about his home since early fall. A slab, about the length of an outstretched arm, from his shoulder to his fingertips. And perhaps it was the perfect shape for a landscape painting, something simple and organic; he was by far not in the mood for that. Indulgence and intoxication in his work was what he sought after, the pure joy of relieving his imagination, of slapping his thought across a surface but the aid of paint. And perhaps he was not the man to paint purely from his imagination, not a man to paint his feelings and deep emotions, but that was about to change.
Vertical was the position of the wood on the easel, as lines of soft led began forming on it. A large oval that loitered in the upper parts, slightly off centre and around it a face began forming. A perfect focal point. Soft, almost eyes with large irises, a narrow nose and the most gentle lips anyone could ever possess, slightly ajar as if suspended in a tremble. The expression of the female face was soulful, not of happiness and not of sadness, just tranquillity. An innocence radiating from that face. And as Valo's skilled hands drew dark lines upon the wood, a luscious mane of curls sprang from the woman's crown and snaked around her neck, filling the wood completely. As he drew, the drawing came to life until it possessed a life of its own. No shading, no mark making of any sort, just the very linear sketch of a face that looked into the distance. A gaze into the unknown.
For the first time in a long time, he was content with what he was creating, though did not stop to think about such matters. This was art. The very purity that poured from the artist's mind and filled the surface with his very contentment. For the first time in a long time he was in love with what he painted.
With a great brush which saw more than its fair share of the world, Valo began mixing all sorts of colours. Elaborate use of red and green, yellow and blue, all vibrant and glorious in the oil medium. And with that very brush, he began painting around the face, which for now remained clean and pristine, free of the paint. That would come in later in the process.
Heavy handed he painted the hair in elaborate hues of copper and red. Perhaps the hair of an Inarta, though he knew not whom it was he was painting. Merely the face of his imagination. And the coppers and the scarlets and the crimsons that entwined though the painting, were merely a contrast to the turquoises and golds that weaved in around them. For once the elaborate tints and tones of the main of curls was finished, painted as if one could reach out and touch it's velvety texture, Valo abandoned the brush and tuned to scrap pieces of cardboard instead, with which he scraped the complimentary background into the locks.
The turquoise he used wasn't even properly mixed with the white, allowing the pigment to retain its exquisite vibrancy, creating vertical and horizontal smudges, first snaking its way into the red from all directions. Then such smudges and harsh lines began periodically originating throughout the hair, creating suspended ledges of colour that perhaps should not be there, but added such untold charm once placed. The artist himself was in a trance of his inspiration, putting not only his heart into it all but also his muscle. One may think that he was perhaps angry with the paint, from the pace at which he worked and the unbreakable predatory focus of his ever animated eyes, but that was not at al the case. He was simply overcome with the joy he had once felt as a child.
Soon emeralds and mints made their way beside the turquoises. And from the very edges of the wood came deep, dark and rich purple, accented with black where needed. It was only then that the artist cleaned his brush with turpentine, thoroughly so that the next colour would not be contaminated. And with that brush he added just the gentlest specs of linseed oil into a dollop cadmium yellow paint. With that thinned out sufficiently, he stood back and with a great motion of his arm, splattered a row of yellow across the lower portion of the painting so that one might think a creature with yellow blood was killed upon it. He repeated the same motion with a darker orange, a mix of that yellow and a cadmium red light. Together the colours, pure and vibrant now decorated the work. A more abstract portrait perhaps, for it resembled not what one would see on the street, a surreal explosion of screaming colour, basic colour and beautiful colour.
The heat from the hearth that warmed up the room allowed him to paint without his shirt on so that the elegant clothing he usually wore would not be ruined. His long hair scraped back into a tight pony tail. Or at least it was when he started, for since then; stray strands wriggled their way from the weave and loitered about his face nonsensically. His legs were covered merely by a pair of simple brown trousers that he never wore in daylight, for lines of paint had stained them. Of course when she was to arrive, he would change his clothing into something more suitable, but time had its way of escaping though his fingers.
Next he sat down finally; a palette upon his knee where meticulously he mixed pale blues for the woman's eyes and even more meticulously he painted them in until liquid surfaces seemed to stare back at him. Light mirrored within them, rimmed by luscious lashes and pale lids. From those lids he worked, this time carefully and gently, unlike the heavy handed painting of the hair. Blues and greens and pinks, he incorporated into the pale nudes of the skin. Grey and purples for the shadows in the creases. Dark brown, weaved with red for the browns. Each mark of the brush, each stipple was so carefully placed and even more carefully blended until an almost photorealistic impression as obtained. The red haired girl with skin of alabaster.
Barely has he moved onto the cheeks and the subtle blush within them, when a knock on the door ripped him brutally from his concentration. A quick glance out the window. A moment of panic for his appearance and sudden remembrance. How had he let the time fly, how foolish of him. Valo abandoned his tools at once, returning back into the artless land of the living once more, reluctantly swinging open the door, allowing the chill to caress his bare chest. Yet there was a smile on his face, if not a gently embarrassed smile. A smudge of blue paint upon his cheek.
"Forgive me, I... er." he spoke in a distracted manner. The accent heavy in his voice for once. With a gentle gesturing from his hand, Valo showed her the way in. "I believe I lost the track of time completely."
The inside of Valo’s house was perhaps the opposite of him. For the clean gentleman he was, the interior of the first room was a tip, with paints and canvases, paintings of all kinds stacked one on top of another in a hap hazard, of not mildly aesthetic, disorder. The true studio of an artist, with little else but paintings upon easels and a hearth within it. The state was terrible and that was despite the fact he had spent an admirable amount of time trying to clean it up. Perhaps the monster, the cruel lady which was his art, was stronger than him. The other room however was not such an atrocious tragedy. Then again there wasn’t very much in there. A bed, a desk and a washing basin in the corner, lit by candles.
