Post by Deleted on Nov 25, 2013 12:21:26 GMT -8
The painting was a surprise. Oliver hadn't ever been crazy about make-up and hadn't ever applied it himself (except at a few of those parties in the Academy). He certainly hadn't ever been made-up in some of the places the pigments were being applied by the androgynous spa attendant. Blue had always been a good colour on Oliver, or so he thought as cerulean stripes were traced against the contours of his ribs.
"That kind of tickles." He said, to which the attendant responded with a look that said 'You are, by far, the strangest, most ridiculous being I have ever met'. "But, don't stop, please." Oliver added, though the attendant had made no sign of slowing.
The attendant made no attempt to blend the colours in most places, but if anything enhanced the painterly quality of the work by highlighting each line with more contrasting lines. Parts of his stomach were shaded like black-work tattoos, giving him the appearance of hollowness, as if he were only being held together by thin strips of yellow and blue. Oliver could not claim to be an expert in art, but he had once attended a one-day-only "human canvas" exhibit where artists camouflaged their 'subjects' into actual canvases, and when he did open his eyes he saw that he had become more of an art-piece than a human being. He belonged in a museum.
He said as much too: "I look like I belong in an art gallery."
This too was met with a quizzical look from the attendant.
"I mean, what you're doing is really beautiful."
The attendant did seem to understand this, but did not offer any conversation. Words were not needed.
The action of the brush against his skin was equal parts erotic and spiritual. Sometimes the brush disappeared and fingers smudged and spread the pigment. In these moments Oliver was aware of a duality: the paint was cool, but the hands were warm. He was both afraid of this vulnerability and also craving it. There were so many planets in the Universe, but every one that Oliver had ever visited had both a night and day. His mind and body, for a moment, seemed to be completely distinct entities. He'd come from a scientific culture, where it was understood that the mind was the result of the machinery of the brain. But, was it so crazy to believe that there might be a little more to consciousness? For a moment he could almost believe that he'd never inhabited his body until that moment, with every nerve lighting up with pleasure.
When he opened his eyes again more colours had been added to the mix. The simple red, blue, and yellow pigments had yielded every other colour imaginable, and still, the painter found ways to combine the three pigments in ways Oliver had never imagined. There was another paint--- one that didn't seem to be of any particular colour at all to Oliver, but to alien eyes it must have represented something. He wondered how much of it was he was missing when he saw these people. He wondered if there was some colour outside of his visible spectrum that held everything together, that would make the patterns on his body make sense. Sometimes the attendant, the artist, abandoned paint in favour of powder and the minerals. The minerals created an entirely different sort of magic because of the particular way in which they conducted the light.
Oliver felt that he had become transcendent. He closed his eyes again, exhausted by the overwhelming experience of studying the painting (and perhaps a little drunk), when the painting abruptly stopped. When he opened his eyes again the painting seemed complete, and the attendant was standing over him with a strange tunic.
"You are complete." Said the attendant.
For once in his life, that statement seemed to apply to Oliver. He floated into the tunic, which was a deep maroon and seemed to be spun from what had to be the finest silk in the known universe. There was a mirror set before him, and Oliver peered at the creature in the glass that was not remotely familiar.
"You wish to paint your lover?" The attendant was watching Oliver admire himself with an expression of pride.
"Um..." Oliver's mind was too slow to come up with an excuse before he was lead over to where Nila, poor Nila, was about to be painted.
Tags: Any/Nila
"That kind of tickles." He said, to which the attendant responded with a look that said 'You are, by far, the strangest, most ridiculous being I have ever met'. "But, don't stop, please." Oliver added, though the attendant had made no sign of slowing.
The attendant made no attempt to blend the colours in most places, but if anything enhanced the painterly quality of the work by highlighting each line with more contrasting lines. Parts of his stomach were shaded like black-work tattoos, giving him the appearance of hollowness, as if he were only being held together by thin strips of yellow and blue. Oliver could not claim to be an expert in art, but he had once attended a one-day-only "human canvas" exhibit where artists camouflaged their 'subjects' into actual canvases, and when he did open his eyes he saw that he had become more of an art-piece than a human being. He belonged in a museum.
He said as much too: "I look like I belong in an art gallery."
This too was met with a quizzical look from the attendant.
"I mean, what you're doing is really beautiful."
The attendant did seem to understand this, but did not offer any conversation. Words were not needed.
The action of the brush against his skin was equal parts erotic and spiritual. Sometimes the brush disappeared and fingers smudged and spread the pigment. In these moments Oliver was aware of a duality: the paint was cool, but the hands were warm. He was both afraid of this vulnerability and also craving it. There were so many planets in the Universe, but every one that Oliver had ever visited had both a night and day. His mind and body, for a moment, seemed to be completely distinct entities. He'd come from a scientific culture, where it was understood that the mind was the result of the machinery of the brain. But, was it so crazy to believe that there might be a little more to consciousness? For a moment he could almost believe that he'd never inhabited his body until that moment, with every nerve lighting up with pleasure.
When he opened his eyes again more colours had been added to the mix. The simple red, blue, and yellow pigments had yielded every other colour imaginable, and still, the painter found ways to combine the three pigments in ways Oliver had never imagined. There was another paint--- one that didn't seem to be of any particular colour at all to Oliver, but to alien eyes it must have represented something. He wondered how much of it was he was missing when he saw these people. He wondered if there was some colour outside of his visible spectrum that held everything together, that would make the patterns on his body make sense. Sometimes the attendant, the artist, abandoned paint in favour of powder and the minerals. The minerals created an entirely different sort of magic because of the particular way in which they conducted the light.
Oliver felt that he had become transcendent. He closed his eyes again, exhausted by the overwhelming experience of studying the painting (and perhaps a little drunk), when the painting abruptly stopped. When he opened his eyes again the painting seemed complete, and the attendant was standing over him with a strange tunic.
"You are complete." Said the attendant.
For once in his life, that statement seemed to apply to Oliver. He floated into the tunic, which was a deep maroon and seemed to be spun from what had to be the finest silk in the known universe. There was a mirror set before him, and Oliver peered at the creature in the glass that was not remotely familiar.
"You wish to paint your lover?" The attendant was watching Oliver admire himself with an expression of pride.
"Um..." Oliver's mind was too slow to come up with an excuse before he was lead over to where Nila, poor Nila, was about to be painted.
Tags: Any/Nila