- Local time
- Tomorrow 1:02 AM
- Messages
- 5
- Age
- 37
I always had more ambition than to be a mere Winter Court alchemist, brewing cocktails for visiting princes to remain stalwart in whatever carnal duties Ljudmila had them do to her.
For in my heart, I’m an artist. I have no interest in lead or mercury, in the properties of saltpeter or sulfur, or least of all mincing dried worms, or distilling silphium, those trivialities are underneath the potency of my brain. I have no love for distilleries, nor do I seek ridiculous myths of that so-called philosopher’s stone to turn the properties of some soft metal into another.
My passion, truly, resides in the brush.
My treasure I seek - they say all men seek purpose and this is mine - is color phantasmic, the color magic, the ultimate paint to paint the ultimate painting with. My genius, strictly focused on creating the perfect depiction of light on whatever medium, not merely a mirror, but the enhancement of reality on canvas!
But it is not the mere use of color and brush on carefully meticuled canvases what creates art, but the soul of the painting!, ah, imagine the painting bursting out of the confinment of the frame, expanding its soul across the gallery and touching the guests with careful pads of all senses: the sight, the smell, the taste, culminating in a multidimensional and -sensational experience which is the depiction of whatever there was trapped within, now escaped amidst the observers.
But it was Igor, that stupid errand boy with whom the countess in her infinite wisdom had burdened me, that had the banal task of washing the brushes and delivering me materials, mixing the paints by my instructions, mind you, a slightly less instructed dog could perform, it was Igor who had mixed the arkenstone of my art -my life’s work, the Color Red 433- in with that noble thot’s phallos curdler!
The delicate and intricate dance of a brush against the virgin skin of canvas, vivid like blood on a maiden’s bosom, makes my blood curl and boil, and to be said, I’m a rather rowdy painter myself if you know what I mean, he-he-hermph, and could not tell the difference of simply being carried away or...
In the eve of the grand opening, I secretly hung the painting in Lady Ljudmila’s spring gallery amidst the less enthusiastic works, whilst Igor delivered the supposed Rejuvenation Potion to a prince arrived from somewhere of Gvenorsk.
Frankly I wasn’t excommunicated - probably because the Prince had a great taste for red paint which, as the little birds say, did not discolor his appetite for peaches and his clear disregard of physical form or and wasn’t bothered the slightest by the lack of a single symmetrical feature in our beloved Countess’ face or form -
- but even as the connoisseur fell in love with my painting, so much that the royal guard had to forcibly put his pants back on and another one to keep them on him while dragging him out, the fool judged that Rhijai Milinovakav’s “Riverboats” was ultimately a “better painting!”
For in my heart, I’m an artist. I have no interest in lead or mercury, in the properties of saltpeter or sulfur, or least of all mincing dried worms, or distilling silphium, those trivialities are underneath the potency of my brain. I have no love for distilleries, nor do I seek ridiculous myths of that so-called philosopher’s stone to turn the properties of some soft metal into another.
My passion, truly, resides in the brush.
My treasure I seek - they say all men seek purpose and this is mine - is color phantasmic, the color magic, the ultimate paint to paint the ultimate painting with. My genius, strictly focused on creating the perfect depiction of light on whatever medium, not merely a mirror, but the enhancement of reality on canvas!
But it is not the mere use of color and brush on carefully meticuled canvases what creates art, but the soul of the painting!, ah, imagine the painting bursting out of the confinment of the frame, expanding its soul across the gallery and touching the guests with careful pads of all senses: the sight, the smell, the taste, culminating in a multidimensional and -sensational experience which is the depiction of whatever there was trapped within, now escaped amidst the observers.
But it was Igor, that stupid errand boy with whom the countess in her infinite wisdom had burdened me, that had the banal task of washing the brushes and delivering me materials, mixing the paints by my instructions, mind you, a slightly less instructed dog could perform, it was Igor who had mixed the arkenstone of my art -my life’s work, the Color Red 433- in with that noble thot’s phallos curdler!
The delicate and intricate dance of a brush against the virgin skin of canvas, vivid like blood on a maiden’s bosom, makes my blood curl and boil, and to be said, I’m a rather rowdy painter myself if you know what I mean, he-he-hermph, and could not tell the difference of simply being carried away or...
In the eve of the grand opening, I secretly hung the painting in Lady Ljudmila’s spring gallery amidst the less enthusiastic works, whilst Igor delivered the supposed Rejuvenation Potion to a prince arrived from somewhere of Gvenorsk.
Frankly I wasn’t excommunicated - probably because the Prince had a great taste for red paint which, as the little birds say, did not discolor his appetite for peaches and his clear disregard of physical form or and wasn’t bothered the slightest by the lack of a single symmetrical feature in our beloved Countess’ face or form -
- but even as the connoisseur fell in love with my painting, so much that the royal guard had to forcibly put his pants back on and another one to keep them on him while dragging him out, the fool judged that Rhijai Milinovakav’s “Riverboats” was ultimately a “better painting!”