Post by Deleted on Nov 5, 2013 14:54:31 GMT
@isobel
Wanda feels like a stray cat when she wanders through Baxter Hall's studio classrooms. Her sculpting class is scheduled towards the end of the day when the place is nearly empty, and the quiet halls are barren. Other art classroom doors hang open until evening when the janitor makes his rounds and locks the place up. The art building is a gallery of the half-baked. Skeletons of thought decorate each room, sketched, molded, and partially clothed or chiseled. One of these classrooms holds an menagerie of oil paintings. Canvases are propped around the studio in small, tight circles. Some sit side-by-side, while others prefer loneliness, refusing to be juxtaposed.
Every day, each of the oil paintings show signs of progress. So many artists are disgusted at the thought of their art viewed before it is finished, but Wanda is mesmerized when she watches the journey of the paint spread or the clay ease upwards into the symmetrical shape of a vase. Each canvas's wetness glistens in the late afternoon sunlight, and Wanda savors the pleasure of watching the paint grow and spread as she makes her rounds. Wanda leans in with little smiles, smelling the sticky colors. There is one painting in particular that attracts her attention. One that she visits and she dwells on longer than any of the others, crossing her arms, her head tilting to the side. With each secret study, an intense admiration for the mystery painter rekindles. The style is her favorite.
Today, she holds a little clay sculpture - glazed and fired into a pale green hue. Its surface feels like glass, the color of the glaze has oxidizing into a beautiful nameless jade color that glistens with other hues like oil on pavement. It is a figurine, almost a toy, of a triceratops made of a small ball of clay. The details of its horns, mouth, and eyes are fine ad tiny. Carefully, she leans it on the ledge of the painting. She smiles, and she pulls a piece of scrap paper from her pocket, and leaving it beside the canvas, scrawls:
"Paint Me"
Every day, each of the oil paintings show signs of progress. So many artists are disgusted at the thought of their art viewed before it is finished, but Wanda is mesmerized when she watches the journey of the paint spread or the clay ease upwards into the symmetrical shape of a vase. Each canvas's wetness glistens in the late afternoon sunlight, and Wanda savors the pleasure of watching the paint grow and spread as she makes her rounds. Wanda leans in with little smiles, smelling the sticky colors. There is one painting in particular that attracts her attention. One that she visits and she dwells on longer than any of the others, crossing her arms, her head tilting to the side. With each secret study, an intense admiration for the mystery painter rekindles. The style is her favorite.
Today, she holds a little clay sculpture - glazed and fired into a pale green hue. Its surface feels like glass, the color of the glaze has oxidizing into a beautiful nameless jade color that glistens with other hues like oil on pavement. It is a figurine, almost a toy, of a triceratops made of a small ball of clay. The details of its horns, mouth, and eyes are fine ad tiny. Carefully, she leans it on the ledge of the painting. She smiles, and she pulls a piece of scrap paper from her pocket, and leaving it beside the canvas, scrawls:
"Paint Me"
CODED BY DUCKIE OF GS
