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 Posted: Tue Jan 20, 2009 5:29 pm
Taking a glance at the garden once more Abel turned to face the blank canvas sitting on his lap. Here he was sitting in the garden surrounded by serenity and elegance yet he had no inspiration to draw. Correction, he had no inspiration to draw those flowers. His heart instead yearned to paint the delicate face of the oriental beauty he had encountered some days ago. Letting out a deep sigh the male surveyed the area once more before picking up a worn down HB sketching pencil. Holding it between his thumb and the rest of his fingers he began sketching the dainty features of his muse. Even now he could recall with perfect clarity the color of her dress and the designs on her shoe.
His fingers moved with grace easily capturing the face of the maiden onto the canvas. It took a good ten minutes before he was satisfied with the sketch. Setting the pencil down on stone bench beside him he pulled out his palette and several tubes of paint from a canvas bag on the bench beside him. Squirting the oil paint gingerly onto the wooden palette careful not to squirt it somewhere else, say per his pants. Holding the palette in his left hand he poured out various colors ranging from black to cream to sea foam blue. Setting the tubes back inside the bag he reached for one of the medium sized soft hair brushes he had with him. It was one form a set of ten, one of many gifts from Juliette that had arrived from her first package.
Dipping the tip into a light cream color he began coloring the face of his lady. This was going to be his finest piece yet. Perhaps when he’s done he shall leave it at the door of the muse who inspired it all. If he ever found her again [which he highly doubted]. He let out a deep sigh at the depressing thought. Never setting eyes on the maiden again. Speaking of sighs, he had been sighing a lot lately. That bothered him… slightly. For reasons his own, but very valid ones at that.
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Posted: Wed Jan 21, 2009 4:01 am
"Vous soupirez comme vous êtes dans l'amour."
Asmadai hadn't wanted to startle the younger man, but after walking past and seeing the subject of the painting he couldn't really help it. You sigh like you're in love, honestly, he was a priest, not a matchmaker. It seemed easy to tease the Frenchman, though, and he felt he hadn't smiled like this since Rome. That didn't really count, since he hadn't smiled for a person. It had definitely been an apparition.
"Vous appelez Abel, n'est-ce pas? J'appelle Asmadai; si je vous effrayais que je suis désolé." (Your name is Abel, isn't that so? Mine is Asmadai; I'm sorry if I startled you.)
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Posted: Wed Jan 21, 2009 5:29 pm
'Vous soupirez comme v ouz estes dans l'amour.'
That phrase had shocked him so much his brush had run straight off the canvas leaving a cream streak through the area meant to be Hyo's hair. Then an annoyed expression as he reached for a white cloth to whip it off the area. Turning he gave the Father a look of irritation. For the phrase he had said and for causing his brush to run astray. But mostly for saying that phrase. This man... he had told himself he would be sure to keep clear of him ever since his first meeting with this man had ended up quite disaterous. With him fainting and being manhandled. That was not a pleasant memory.
When the Father said his name Abel nodded his head politely. As much as Abel did not like the man, he was still a priest and to him, a man of god still deserved respect. When Asmadai apologized his scowl slight unraveled. Clearing his back of artistic junk he set the sack on the ground beside his foot to make room for the man and proceeded to return to his painting. He wanted to get this done before Saint Valentine's day. A gift for her.Hopefully he would get this done by then. But then again if people [Ahem the father,] kept on bothering him he doubted it.
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Posted: Wed Jan 28, 2009 4:53 pm
Asmadai hid his smile behind one hand. "" he said again, still in French. That was truly all he had to say, but he took the proffered seat on the bench anyway; he had never had the opportunity to see someone who was any good paint before. Maria had been more into dance than art (or was it archery she'd been into) and his other siblings hadn't really held his attention that well.
"" He winced at his own mangled French. It had been a while since he'd needed it.
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Posted: Wed Apr 08, 2009 5:24 pm
The male nodded yes. While it was rude to ‘talk’ to the father without looking him directly in the face Abel did it nonetheless. After all, the man wasn’t exactly high on Abel’s list of respectable persons. Being a man of god only got you so far. That coupled with that… unfavorable incident had rendered the Father midway on Abel’s list. Sure it was childish to hold a grudge on something so petty but Abel wasn’t in a very patient mood today. Perhaps another day Abel would treat him differently.
Reaching for a thinner paint brush the male accidentally knocked over his water, sending the murky mess right across Asmadai’s lap. A look of pure horror and embarrassment was written on the Frenchman’s face. Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a clean handkerchief and quickly began dabbing away at the man’s robes. “Je suis désolé!” The words flew out in a rush blending to form something almost incomprehensible.
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Posted: Sun May 10, 2009 8:03 pm
Asmadai stiffened at the splashed water, cutting off a rather rude word before he got much farther than the first phoneme. That was one more thing to do penance for; even priests weren't exempt from the rules of common decency.
It was only from experience with embarrassed confessions by parishoners that Abel's words were deciphered; the spurt of words shocked Asmadai, possibly more than the water had. Wasn't the poor boy mute? (The thirty-year-old would have laughed about calling Abel a 'boy', but he was too busy being stunned and also wet).
"Non, ce n'est pas de problem," he said hurriedly, but he was uncertain how to make Abel stop; it really, really wasn't that big of a deal, but he remembered that Abel did not like to be touched... Or was it crowds? It rankled that he couldn't remember. "C'est bien, Abel," he tried. "Vraiment. S'il vous plait, continuez de peindre. Vous peignez bien."
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Posted: Thu Jul 30, 2009 5:46 am
The Frenchman stopped as the priest spoke comforting words. He opened his mouth to say something but slowly closed it again. Nodding his head at the father, the male resigned himself to painting again. Apply a few quick strokes the male stopped and let out a sigh. He had lost all trace of inspiration from earlier. Reaching into his bag, he pulled out a large worn out sketchbook and several sticks of charcoal. If he couldn’t work on it, he might as well do something else… like offer another apology for his mishap on the priest’s robe. One the priest should accept with grace for Abel’s sake.
This was the least he could do in terms of the Frenchman’s abilities. Opening the sketchbook, the male flipped through various pages covered in portraits until he found a clean page. Brushing off the page to remove any small debris that might be on it, the Frenchman stared intently at Asmadai’s face. A minute. Two minutes. Several minutes passed before Abel looked back down at the page and began marking on the page. At first it was only a multitude of lines, but slowly it began to progress into two undefined figures. As the male’s hand continued to move, the picture continued to flourish.
The setting was a large gothic cathedral. Dimly lit in the way half the page was covered in black charcoal. One figure was kneeled on the ground in pious reverence, another figure touching the one on the floor. As the man’s hand glazed over the figures, they began to have faces. As other finer details were worked out, it became clear. It was Abel’s way of saying may the father be blessed. A silence settled as the Frenchman continued to work and finally he stopped. Grabbing the page by the bottom, Abel gently tugged on it. The sketchbook emitted a loud ripping sound and then, the male held out the page for Asmadai.
The figure kneeling was clearly Asmadai. The face, hair and even clothes were exactly like that of what he had on right now. Except, that the subject of the drawling was surrounded by a serene aura and being touched on the forehead by another figure. Dressed in flowing white robes and graced with eagle like wings, the figure in front of the kneeling body was obviously an angel. Abel had out done himself. But the matter at hand was would the priest like it?
He better accept it. Abel had every intention of feigning outrage if the priest didn’t. Childlike yes, but it was an apology. Weren’t priests supposed to accept apologies no matter what?
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Posted: Tue Aug 04, 2009 12:11 am
Assuming the boy had gone back to painting, he sighed and pulled lightly at his cassock. It didn't look like it would be too badly affected - even if it was, he still had plenty of robes left from before. He'd have to go and clean it soon...
The sound of tearing paper startled him out of his reverie. He looked up, somewhat surprised and already forming a question for Abel, only to see a piece of paper held out to him in the brunette's hand. Wondering if it was a note for him to read of some sort, he took it and then paused, staring at the image sketched onto the paper. He imagined it would have been a familiar enough tableau to those who had known him in the Vatican, he had always spent much time in chapels, it had simply been part of who he was.
"Merci beaucoup," he said, uncertain of what else to add. "C'est manifique."
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