This Solo takes place IMMEDIATELY after Family Friday FracasAfter sending his cousin to bed, knowing full well that she had a painfully long weekend ahead of her, along with her parents, of fixing his mess, Mathias turned his attention back to the canvas that he had been in the process of preparing when his cousin had called to ensure that he was alive. The conversation would have been a typical one - teasing him for picking up and striking out with the mysterious woman whom she happened to give him a fair amount of information on - if her bribery and internet stalking were correct. He stood in his “Studio,” or rather, the smaller of his two rooms in his apartment that he’d more or less modified into an art space.
The canvas stared at him, stark and barren, an off-white void that demanded to be filled with color and lines. Mathias had always had an interesting creative process - and his moods tended to play a large role in his final product. Fey or foul, it was fairly easy to tell what he was feeling when he’d worked on the piece, and this time he was sure it would be no different. The painting would likely end up in his “vault,” a large modified fireproof safe that he stored the pieces that he’d rather not see the light of day, but did not have the heart to destroy. Some of his darker - more esoteric pieces lay within there - art that likely would have gotten him asked particularly probing questions and likely a referral to a psych ward.
Those paintings had been made during… rough days.
This one would be in stark contrast to those, even as he started to sketch on the canvas using his charcoal pencil - the lines of the woman’s face were as true as he could remember them. The brightness of her eyes, the trueness of her smile. The real joy that it had contained, the genuineness of it that had seared itself deeply into his mind. The rest of the night was a blur to him, as were most nights like this. But even as the light of dawn broke through the heavily curtained windows of the studio, he was finishing up the final touches on the piece.
Stepping back, he surveyed his work, - a semi-realistic depiction of one Imara Mason, smiling toward the viewer. The backdrop was an African savanna, heat haze rolling in the grass, acacia and baobab trees sprouting here and there along the mostly vast plain. She was dressed in full bushwalker attire, and her foot rested on the back of a rusty jeep, one hand cradled a shotgun that rested on the upraised leg, at her feet, laid out like show trophies, were a handful of poachers she had apparently thwarted on a trip to Africa - if the links his cousin had sent him had been accurate. The toe of her other boot was visibly resting on the back of one, as if she was about to kick him over onto his stomach. In the middle ground, a gaggle of various laughing african animals could be seen, pointing at the plight of the poachers.
“That’ll do,” He breathed, his eyes ached, he was exhausted, and so he left the room to go and grab himself a bottle of water from his fridge. But his fingers twitched, and ached to draw more - to paint more. And midway through the water he let out a long sigh, looking up at the roof.
“After a nap,” He breathed. “Just let me get some sleep and we’ll do one more… Just one more.”
The ache in his hands subsided somewhat - but only just, and he shook his head. This was going to be a longstanding issue - wasn’t it?
His subconscious was just unkind enough to deny him an answer.
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