2020-01-30 - Ink and Watercolor

It's good space, tucked in the master suite of 7 Oak Avenue. Art supplies fill narrow shelves, a paint-spattered sheet thrown down to protect the hardwood floor while they work. There are even a couple folding chairs brough up from downstairs. The music playing in the background isn't their typical fare, but it suits the mood, all restlessness and uncertainty, heartbreak and irritation.

Sparrow works in ink first, the watercolors waiting for later. It's a large piece, sketched in pencil before anything more permanent goes down, turned and turned repeatedly to get the proportions right, the symmetry, the features. It doesn't take long to see the playing card taking shape in those black lines, the two-faced image evocative of royalty while bearing no symbols of suit or family, no loyalty to anyone. Maybe not even to each other, for how the swords they hold plunge into one another's sides.

It's sort of like peace, what she feels when it's done, as the color dries faster than some of the black which keeps it in place. It's more like sorrow, heartache, the anger briefly fading into resignation. Relief.

Size: 24"x36"
Media: Ink & Watercolor
Title: Two of Swords

A simple black border with curved corners and a one inch margin from the edge provides the framing for what is plainly a depiction of a playing card from an unusual deck. It bears no markings to suggest suit or rank, a face card of indecipherable nobility. Each of the two faces, pointed in opposite directions, bear a different face, a different coloration. Both are fully inked and outlined in black, the negative space kept pristine white, with only a few touches of watercolor to catch the eye.

One is masculine, with dark hair and a neat beard, his features elegant and angular, his clothing a deep evergreen shade. A matching green cloth gags his mouth and covers his ears, though he looks no less regal for the odd accessory. In his visible hand, he holds a wide sword which pierces the flank of the other figure.

The other is feminine, with bright red hair and a strong jawline, her lips just as vibrant, her clothing a deeper burgundy. A matching cloth blindfolds her eyes and covers her ears, though she looks no less majestic for its imposition. In her visible hand, she holds a thin, sharp blade which pierces the flank of the other figure.

The piece is readily reversible, a signature right side up in the lower left corner no matter which figure is upright, marking this a composition of: PS Jones

Picking up paint with Sparrow post-waffling (on the food, the offer, and the composition) Grant ran into the problem where the colours that he saw that haunt him and nature never intended much less find paint for?! Artists: the struggle is real.

Life has been a series of excessive highs lately which also, inevitably, means dramatic lows, and this is definitely one of those weeks where he's tried to stick to his meds and they're doing their best but reality and the irraealis are really battling it out. He sits on a stool letting Post Malone take care of the music component and the magenta haired punk sits staring at the blank canvas for long enough until it all starts to hit him: The haunting of himself, the fear left over from cutting his own head off and trying to find meaning in that- because real or not it really makes one ask HOW did I get here?!. The chance meeting with what is simply known right now as his Muse: one to affect and be affected and find a catalyzing energy to create again in this heart of heather grey by some super-charged momentum, and the rocket ride to space to help him find precisely where he wanted to be: EVERYTHING he wanted to see and touch that he never considered before has been presented... and taken.

The music is up but it accentuates the silence on his canvas in the flat white until the moment comes where he might be having a panic attack. Taking in too deep a breath he murmurs to Sparrow "I'll be back" and he's gone. Gone to the source. The Muse or... well as close to it as he can get which is raiding Corey's kitchen (we'll be honest, it's his) for a few things not the least of which is making a pot of coffee.

He returns with a Hot Pocket (not-food) and coffee (arguably food- Precisely, arguably a liquid pound cake). A cup is set down for her, and another trip brings back the grounds in the filter in a disposable Tupperware container (that people will dishwash anyways). The grounds go into the process staining the offending blanched surface bringing food back to art in a tint, and a texture. Was there emotion on his face? Yeah. These two get into their painting on a personal level. If you can't feel what your'e creating how can someone else possibly feel it too? It's a process!

Slowly there's a nod that forms, approval. There you are, he signs to the canvas. And in time over the coffee tan come shades of greens and jade and blue working sky into earth. Salt found pulling the colour up from the gauche and the watercolour to give saturated but soft transitions that are weightless as they are dramatic leaving spots of white like nimbus stars. In the foreground stands a figure both lost but hopeful looking up through a thin but imposed structure through the arch at the sliver of a moon in a mai tai sky taking the journey through space to something on the other side of space that stands inviting in that square of light where right now meets tomorrow.

How much time has passed? He doesn't know. When he finished eating or what number cup of coffee that is? He doesn't know. His brain quite literally lacks an ability to track time so really right now and next are all that can matter. Maybe They took the past; took time? He doesn't know, but it's gone. The smell of coffee and paint brings him back to present and he blinks, startled as if the painting appeared in front of him or maybe it was created when he walked through it. Maybe he never left and this was not fabrication but his hand and that line blurs.

But it's done, and it's his. Sort of.
"This can't stay here... but I think... it's ready."

A deep breath he looks to Sparrow and a smile forms; exhausted, tired, and entirely grateful for the catharsis.

"Mario Kart and a nap after this."