07-14-2013, 04:37 PM
“Absolutely” Her tone was almost serious, but the peek of eyes from her sketchpad accompanied by the easy grin marked a jest. Thalia made a good living, in part thanks to a generous patron, but she didn’t exactly have cash spilling from her pockets, nor much weight to her name beyond certain circles. In a city like Moscow it was hard enough just to make ends meet, let alone anything else. For the average citizen at least. There were plenty enough of the obscenely rich new-elite living here too; good thing, really, because without them, someone like Thalia couldn’t make a living at all.
If she was annoyed to be disturbed, or offended by the brusque manner in which the American had plopped herself down, there was no indication. Her grin was affable, though not really in the way of someone reeling in a fish on a hook. She could have used the opportunity to spin a story; tourists were easy game, and Alek looked out for her as much as she did for him, but she didn’t, nor gave that impression. Not that Thalia was some moralistic angel, but she wasn’t a con artist either. And she’d never been much of a seller. During the process of painting the art was a part of her, as intrinsic as blood or breathing, but afterwards it was something else. Something wholly separate, and she liked to keep it that way. Some people waxed lyrical about their creations, but not her. Oh, when pressed she could come up with something suitably appeasing about the process, about the inspiration. But she preferred to let the pictures speak for themselves.
Thalia’s pencil twiddled about in her fingers, but she’d stopped drawing. The girl opposite was unusual, even for the Arbatskaya district. Curiously, Thal took in the sweeping lines of her makeup; the dark lines round her eyes and the bold hue of her lips. Her hair was fantastic, and the shaved side of her scalp looked soft as downy fur; Thalia had the ridiculous urge to touch it, though of course she didn’t. Even her brows were pink. Thalia appreciated aesthetics; especially the little details. It amused her how diametric they must look to passers-by; the American girl with her striking, harsh lines of style. The intimidating black and bold colours. The hair. Thalia with her rose-cheeked innocence, bare-faced of makeup (since she’d been working all day), and wearing the most girlish tea-dress and cardigan. She nearly laughed, but it probably would have been odd. Instead she offered a teasing grin.
“Ignore Alek. He’s not fond of Americans.” That sort of prejudice wasn’t exactly uncommon, particularly in the heart of the CCD, though this one didn’t look the sort to be phased by it. Best way to be, really. Thalia shrugged and curled her hand around her mug, but paused when she realised it was stone cold. Huh. She leaned forward to place it on the table instead, using her empty plate for a saucer, and then sat back. “I did do the painting, but I doubt Alek’s looking to sell it. I think he’s hoping it might be worth something one day.”
Alek’s painting was one of those, the necessary ones that burned a path through her skull and squeezed everything else out until it was given a channel. When she started, occasionally she had vague notions – a feeling, maybe, or an image that often had little to do with the finished piece. Sometimes she worked with a blank mind, answering only to the blind press of compulsion guiding her fingers – though that she’d never even told Aylin. It was like there was a part of her brain locked behind a door, and she didn’t have the fucking key. Not a pleasant feeling; the chilling sensation of thought working outside the realms of your own consciousness. Certainly not something you shared with your shrink sister.
Even now, when she looked at the woman’s face, her eyes like two gold pennies, she remembered the force that had compelled her: a wolf running through a field of wildflowers – dashing, really, playful as a pup in spring. Not that Thalia had ever seen one aside from in a zoo, and she certainly didn’t expect that they frolicked like this one, whether it was spring or not. The presence of the flowers ran a clear parallel – and Thalia liked flowers anyway, particularly poppies, but the wolf? No idea. Just some twitchy tick of her brain, apparently. The gold eyes, though; in Greek mythology, pennies paid Charon for passage across the river Styx, and some burial rites, in mythology at least, saw the coins placed over the eyes. She’d almost certainly read that somewhere; it had probably stuck in the back of her mind.
“I’m Thalia.”
If she was annoyed to be disturbed, or offended by the brusque manner in which the American had plopped herself down, there was no indication. Her grin was affable, though not really in the way of someone reeling in a fish on a hook. She could have used the opportunity to spin a story; tourists were easy game, and Alek looked out for her as much as she did for him, but she didn’t, nor gave that impression. Not that Thalia was some moralistic angel, but she wasn’t a con artist either. And she’d never been much of a seller. During the process of painting the art was a part of her, as intrinsic as blood or breathing, but afterwards it was something else. Something wholly separate, and she liked to keep it that way. Some people waxed lyrical about their creations, but not her. Oh, when pressed she could come up with something suitably appeasing about the process, about the inspiration. But she preferred to let the pictures speak for themselves.
Thalia’s pencil twiddled about in her fingers, but she’d stopped drawing. The girl opposite was unusual, even for the Arbatskaya district. Curiously, Thal took in the sweeping lines of her makeup; the dark lines round her eyes and the bold hue of her lips. Her hair was fantastic, and the shaved side of her scalp looked soft as downy fur; Thalia had the ridiculous urge to touch it, though of course she didn’t. Even her brows were pink. Thalia appreciated aesthetics; especially the little details. It amused her how diametric they must look to passers-by; the American girl with her striking, harsh lines of style. The intimidating black and bold colours. The hair. Thalia with her rose-cheeked innocence, bare-faced of makeup (since she’d been working all day), and wearing the most girlish tea-dress and cardigan. She nearly laughed, but it probably would have been odd. Instead she offered a teasing grin.
“Ignore Alek. He’s not fond of Americans.” That sort of prejudice wasn’t exactly uncommon, particularly in the heart of the CCD, though this one didn’t look the sort to be phased by it. Best way to be, really. Thalia shrugged and curled her hand around her mug, but paused when she realised it was stone cold. Huh. She leaned forward to place it on the table instead, using her empty plate for a saucer, and then sat back. “I did do the painting, but I doubt Alek’s looking to sell it. I think he’s hoping it might be worth something one day.”
Alek’s painting was one of those, the necessary ones that burned a path through her skull and squeezed everything else out until it was given a channel. When she started, occasionally she had vague notions – a feeling, maybe, or an image that often had little to do with the finished piece. Sometimes she worked with a blank mind, answering only to the blind press of compulsion guiding her fingers – though that she’d never even told Aylin. It was like there was a part of her brain locked behind a door, and she didn’t have the fucking key. Not a pleasant feeling; the chilling sensation of thought working outside the realms of your own consciousness. Certainly not something you shared with your shrink sister.
Even now, when she looked at the woman’s face, her eyes like two gold pennies, she remembered the force that had compelled her: a wolf running through a field of wildflowers – dashing, really, playful as a pup in spring. Not that Thalia had ever seen one aside from in a zoo, and she certainly didn’t expect that they frolicked like this one, whether it was spring or not. The presence of the flowers ran a clear parallel – and Thalia liked flowers anyway, particularly poppies, but the wolf? No idea. Just some twitchy tick of her brain, apparently. The gold eyes, though; in Greek mythology, pennies paid Charon for passage across the river Styx, and some burial rites, in mythology at least, saw the coins placed over the eyes. She’d almost certainly read that somewhere; it had probably stuck in the back of her mind.
“I’m Thalia.”
![[Image: thal-banner-scaled.jpg]](http://thefirstage.org/wp-content/uploads/2023/08/thal-banner-scaled.jpg)