K R O W E
Searing 20 122
"This is it," she breathed, reaching towards the light switch. It gave an audible click as her hand brushed against the wall and the lights hissed and flickered to life, casting a bright, unnatural white light across the work room. Krowe blinked, turning away at the sight of the brunette's shy smile, fingers twitching in the pocket of his overcoat. The heat in the room was bearable, heavy from the warming season and he reached for the buttons of his jacket with one hand as he prowled along the wall. She was watching him, unsure if she should approach or keep her distance. He noticed how she twisted the hem of her dress between her fingers and glanced towards the door.
She's nervous, he noted. Krowe stopped in front of one of the machines and ran his hand along the cool steel, "What's all this?" he asked, although he knew from the metal racks lining the east wall, beside which sat a vertical stack of mesh strainers. He had chosen her for this particular reason, after all. Along the wall was thin wire and clothespins, from which student work had been hung to dry.
She embraced the distraction from the tension in the room, slipping up to the wall to unpin one of the paintings. She pushed off her toes, a bit too short to reach comfortably, even wearing heels. The back of her dress rose as she reached upward, flashing the top of her stocking. Keres stepped closer.
Catching his shadow from the corner of her eyes, she smiled, "I've got it."
"Hm," he nodded, plucking a metal cigarette case from his pocket, eyeing her glimpse of skin and the slope of the cotton fabric across her ass. She was thin with narrow hips. Willowy. Small breasts, given no favor by the a-line she wore. There was a meekness to her movements; opportunity. Krowe interpreted these features as a woman not used to being seen; overlooked, perhaps even bullied in her school years. But behind the thick spectacles were dull blue eyes, not bright like his or his mother's, but blue nonetheless. She smelled like turpentine.
When she faced him, her mouth dropped, "Ah, you can't smoke in here."
Keres, who had pulled his eyes away and bowed his head, matchbox in hand as he prepared to light the cigarette balanced on his bottom lip, stopped. He stared at the ground for a moment and then fixed his gaze upon her. She shifted apologetically, "It's just... The smoke can yellow the paper."
A real shame. He dropped the box of matches back to his pocket, plucking the cigarette free and slipping it behind his ear. One fucking cigarette's gonna ruin all this? Fucking doubt it. He brushed past the topic, nodding at the art in her hands, "You're the artist here," Krowe shrugged off his jacket next, draping it across his arm, "Show me."
She had feared he would be angry, but his interest in her hobby made her smile. The woman, Molly Harrison, whom he had met a few days prior getting coffee, presented the painting, face-up, in both of her palms, watching for any change of expression. She wanted to impress him. Clearly, she was attracted to him. He took a long look, leaning close as he took in the details. The picture was of an orange tabby sleeping on a window sill, flowers climbing up the wall. It was entirely uninspiring, nothing striking him as original or distinguishable from any other creator. Was this the type of talent the Valtrois School of Fine Arts deemed acceptable? "You continue to surprise me," he breathed, the reluctance interpreted as reverence according to the small giggle that she released.
"I've been drawing since I was a little girl."
"It shows." And apparently that was when her talent stagnated. His mother would have laughed in his face had he ever presented something so dull, "May I?"
"Of course."
He took it from her with care, turning to get a better look under the light. He could see where her brush had built up the color and how the paper had reacted to the water. The paper was tooth-heavy, it's edges soft and uncut. He measured its weight, and smiled, "You know what I think," he whispered, waiting until she leaned forward, "I think you made this."
She looked puzzled, "I-"
He grinned, finishing the thought, "The paper," he tilted his head towards the supplies lined along the room, "It's very impressive. Plenty of people claim to be artists, but they cannot take nothing and make something truly new. Look at you."
Molly had been caught off guard, but he could tell she was pleased to see someone had acknowledged the full effort of the piece. It was such a shame it was still so underwhelming, "You have a good eye. Most people expect me to have bought my supplies. A lot of the other students here are rich-"
"But not you."
She dropped her gaze, shaking her head, "No." She grew quiet and for a moment, they stood in silence.
"You think this disappoints me?"
"Yes."
"It doesn't." He passed the work back to her, "I'd take a resourceful girl over a rich one any day."
Krowe drummed his fingers against his bottom lip, thinking, "In truth, I am a very jealous man," he admitted, "I envy you."
She was holding her breath, the energy having shifted to something heavier once more, "Me?"
"Why not?" they were toe to toe now. He held the artwork between them, tightening his grip when she went to take it from him. Her eyes looked into his, "To learn to paint... Art. All of it... I don't have money either, you know."
Molly hadn't quite shaken free of the spell. For the first time in her life, a man was paying her attention. She wasn't ready to give that up just yet, "You still can," she still held the corner of the paper, "You only need to submit a portfolio and an application. There's a fee, but I could help you." It was exactly what he wanted to hear.
"Don't tease me," he warned, smiling, "Hope is a dangerous thing."
"Really," she returned his smile, reminded of the art in her hand, "It just takes a bit of practice. I know what they look for. I want to help."
Krowe hummed again, switching his approach to something less intimate. If he played his cards right, he could have her in the palm of his hand. He would just need to be careful with how he defined her expectations of this arrangement, "I would like that," he said seriously, turning her towards the open room after releasing his vice on the paper, "I want to learn it all," he tapped the painting, "Teach me how you made this. If I make some proper paper, I can start to practice."
"Do you keep a sketchbook?" she asked, eagerly moving to rehang the work. She picked up one of the wooden frames, "It's the best place to express yourself. And there's a lot of styles you can buy, until you learn to make your own. It is... well, it's quite a process. Best to buy a cheaper one in the beginning, where you're not afraid to make mistakes. The paper weight can vary depending on the materials used it was made. I prefer a stitching binding over coil, and if you can save up a bit, a leather cover slip cover. It's more durable and will last longer. Art supplies can become expensive very quickly, so you'll want to find items that will last. There's a little shop a couple blocks from Rosenholz that a lot of the scholarship students go to. If you tell them you're attending Valtrois, the owner will give you a discount."
"I''ll keep that in mind," he thought it amusing, the idea of being scared to ruin a book. He inquired about paper weight, which she elaborated on, using terms shortly after, like cold press and hot press.
"And this method is cold press?" he watched as she went to a drawer and pulled out old scraps of paper left over from the university students, failed sketches or warm up exercises that had no use other than finding a second life through recycling. One of the ingredients he hadn't been expecting, was lint fibers apparently collected from the textile factories on the northside. Now he knew where he could collect the supplies without cost, when it was time to put this knowledge to work. She pointed to the faucet, instructing him to fill an empty tub so that they could throw the shreds of paper, lint, and glue into a vat of water. It would soak, breaking down into cellulose fibers until it was a nice pulp.
"Normally I would have this sit overnight, but with the power of cheating, I can show you the next steps," she grinned, giving a small demonstration with how she would have pulled the mesh frame across the goop to strain it in nice, even layer. It had a grey coloring, "This is what it looks like once it's dried," she retrieved another layer that had been already sitting out to dry, "We call the texture tooth."
"That's what the medium clings to."
"Yes, exactly."
"Hm." It was flatter than he expected, and his brows furrowed. He looked at machine with felt rollers, "It's run through those?"
"Yes. It's where it gets its name." Cold temperature rollers for cold press paper. Made sense. She watched his fingers begin to drum his bottom lip again, "Is this too much?"
He had grown pensive, saying less the more she demonstrated, "No, not at all," he was simply musing on how this information could be used in his own business, "I'm just thinking."
"You want me to keep going?"
"Absolutely," he sighed, running a hand over his head, half expecting to still feel long hair. Instead, his scalp was fuzzy, short and buzzed close, "I do have a question, though. Besides their creation, is there any difference between the two types?"
"Oh yes. Hot press is generally more expensive and less widely known. Colors are more vivid, the paper feels smoother, less tooth," she looked around the room for an example she might be able to show him, "It's better for high precision work, especially with inks, but it's less structurally sound when it gets wet," she took a deep breath, "Are you sure I'm not boring you?"
"I'm fine," he muttered, trying not to reveal the flare of irritation he felt in response to her insecure need for reassurance, "Do you want to stop?"
"Well... no, I just..." she looked reluctant, embarrassed, "Nevermind."
He sighed, consciously softening his expression, "What is it? Tell me."
"I guess I just thought we would spending our time differently," she whispered looking away. He rose his brows. She was blushing.
He eyed her openly, then the door. They were alone, but he could hear voices filling the hallways now as students began to file into the hallway from their first classes. He knew she was free for the day until the evening, when her life drawing class took place, "Let's get lunch," he put aside the supplies and waved her closer, slipping an arm around her waist. It would be easy to take her, he thought, fixing his eyes on the unfastened button below her collarbone. Calmly, he reached up and fixed it, pushing the button into the threaded hole, "I'm sure we'll find something else to occupy our time."
He smirked and guided her towards the door.
She's nervous, he noted. Krowe stopped in front of one of the machines and ran his hand along the cool steel, "What's all this?" he asked, although he knew from the metal racks lining the east wall, beside which sat a vertical stack of mesh strainers. He had chosen her for this particular reason, after all. Along the wall was thin wire and clothespins, from which student work had been hung to dry.
She embraced the distraction from the tension in the room, slipping up to the wall to unpin one of the paintings. She pushed off her toes, a bit too short to reach comfortably, even wearing heels. The back of her dress rose as she reached upward, flashing the top of her stocking. Keres stepped closer.
Catching his shadow from the corner of her eyes, she smiled, "I've got it."
"Hm," he nodded, plucking a metal cigarette case from his pocket, eyeing her glimpse of skin and the slope of the cotton fabric across her ass. She was thin with narrow hips. Willowy. Small breasts, given no favor by the a-line she wore. There was a meekness to her movements; opportunity. Krowe interpreted these features as a woman not used to being seen; overlooked, perhaps even bullied in her school years. But behind the thick spectacles were dull blue eyes, not bright like his or his mother's, but blue nonetheless. She smelled like turpentine.
When she faced him, her mouth dropped, "Ah, you can't smoke in here."
Keres, who had pulled his eyes away and bowed his head, matchbox in hand as he prepared to light the cigarette balanced on his bottom lip, stopped. He stared at the ground for a moment and then fixed his gaze upon her. She shifted apologetically, "It's just... The smoke can yellow the paper."
A real shame. He dropped the box of matches back to his pocket, plucking the cigarette free and slipping it behind his ear. One fucking cigarette's gonna ruin all this? Fucking doubt it. He brushed past the topic, nodding at the art in her hands, "You're the artist here," Krowe shrugged off his jacket next, draping it across his arm, "Show me."
She had feared he would be angry, but his interest in her hobby made her smile. The woman, Molly Harrison, whom he had met a few days prior getting coffee, presented the painting, face-up, in both of her palms, watching for any change of expression. She wanted to impress him. Clearly, she was attracted to him. He took a long look, leaning close as he took in the details. The picture was of an orange tabby sleeping on a window sill, flowers climbing up the wall. It was entirely uninspiring, nothing striking him as original or distinguishable from any other creator. Was this the type of talent the Valtrois School of Fine Arts deemed acceptable? "You continue to surprise me," he breathed, the reluctance interpreted as reverence according to the small giggle that she released.
"I've been drawing since I was a little girl."
"It shows." And apparently that was when her talent stagnated. His mother would have laughed in his face had he ever presented something so dull, "May I?"
"Of course."
He took it from her with care, turning to get a better look under the light. He could see where her brush had built up the color and how the paper had reacted to the water. The paper was tooth-heavy, it's edges soft and uncut. He measured its weight, and smiled, "You know what I think," he whispered, waiting until she leaned forward, "I think you made this."
She looked puzzled, "I-"
He grinned, finishing the thought, "The paper," he tilted his head towards the supplies lined along the room, "It's very impressive. Plenty of people claim to be artists, but they cannot take nothing and make something truly new. Look at you."
Molly had been caught off guard, but he could tell she was pleased to see someone had acknowledged the full effort of the piece. It was such a shame it was still so underwhelming, "You have a good eye. Most people expect me to have bought my supplies. A lot of the other students here are rich-"
"But not you."
She dropped her gaze, shaking her head, "No." She grew quiet and for a moment, they stood in silence.
"You think this disappoints me?"
"Yes."
"It doesn't." He passed the work back to her, "I'd take a resourceful girl over a rich one any day."
Krowe drummed his fingers against his bottom lip, thinking, "In truth, I am a very jealous man," he admitted, "I envy you."
She was holding her breath, the energy having shifted to something heavier once more, "Me?"
"Why not?" they were toe to toe now. He held the artwork between them, tightening his grip when she went to take it from him. Her eyes looked into his, "To learn to paint... Art. All of it... I don't have money either, you know."
Molly hadn't quite shaken free of the spell. For the first time in her life, a man was paying her attention. She wasn't ready to give that up just yet, "You still can," she still held the corner of the paper, "You only need to submit a portfolio and an application. There's a fee, but I could help you." It was exactly what he wanted to hear.
"Don't tease me," he warned, smiling, "Hope is a dangerous thing."
"Really," she returned his smile, reminded of the art in her hand, "It just takes a bit of practice. I know what they look for. I want to help."
Krowe hummed again, switching his approach to something less intimate. If he played his cards right, he could have her in the palm of his hand. He would just need to be careful with how he defined her expectations of this arrangement, "I would like that," he said seriously, turning her towards the open room after releasing his vice on the paper, "I want to learn it all," he tapped the painting, "Teach me how you made this. If I make some proper paper, I can start to practice."
"Do you keep a sketchbook?" she asked, eagerly moving to rehang the work. She picked up one of the wooden frames, "It's the best place to express yourself. And there's a lot of styles you can buy, until you learn to make your own. It is... well, it's quite a process. Best to buy a cheaper one in the beginning, where you're not afraid to make mistakes. The paper weight can vary depending on the materials used it was made. I prefer a stitching binding over coil, and if you can save up a bit, a leather cover slip cover. It's more durable and will last longer. Art supplies can become expensive very quickly, so you'll want to find items that will last. There's a little shop a couple blocks from Rosenholz that a lot of the scholarship students go to. If you tell them you're attending Valtrois, the owner will give you a discount."
"I''ll keep that in mind," he thought it amusing, the idea of being scared to ruin a book. He inquired about paper weight, which she elaborated on, using terms shortly after, like cold press and hot press.
"And this method is cold press?" he watched as she went to a drawer and pulled out old scraps of paper left over from the university students, failed sketches or warm up exercises that had no use other than finding a second life through recycling. One of the ingredients he hadn't been expecting, was lint fibers apparently collected from the textile factories on the northside. Now he knew where he could collect the supplies without cost, when it was time to put this knowledge to work. She pointed to the faucet, instructing him to fill an empty tub so that they could throw the shreds of paper, lint, and glue into a vat of water. It would soak, breaking down into cellulose fibers until it was a nice pulp.
"Normally I would have this sit overnight, but with the power of cheating, I can show you the next steps," she grinned, giving a small demonstration with how she would have pulled the mesh frame across the goop to strain it in nice, even layer. It had a grey coloring, "This is what it looks like once it's dried," she retrieved another layer that had been already sitting out to dry, "We call the texture tooth."
"That's what the medium clings to."
"Yes, exactly."
"Hm." It was flatter than he expected, and his brows furrowed. He looked at machine with felt rollers, "It's run through those?"
"Yes. It's where it gets its name." Cold temperature rollers for cold press paper. Made sense. She watched his fingers begin to drum his bottom lip again, "Is this too much?"
He had grown pensive, saying less the more she demonstrated, "No, not at all," he was simply musing on how this information could be used in his own business, "I'm just thinking."
"You want me to keep going?"
"Absolutely," he sighed, running a hand over his head, half expecting to still feel long hair. Instead, his scalp was fuzzy, short and buzzed close, "I do have a question, though. Besides their creation, is there any difference between the two types?"
"Oh yes. Hot press is generally more expensive and less widely known. Colors are more vivid, the paper feels smoother, less tooth," she looked around the room for an example she might be able to show him, "It's better for high precision work, especially with inks, but it's less structurally sound when it gets wet," she took a deep breath, "Are you sure I'm not boring you?"
"I'm fine," he muttered, trying not to reveal the flare of irritation he felt in response to her insecure need for reassurance, "Do you want to stop?"
"Well... no, I just..." she looked reluctant, embarrassed, "Nevermind."
He sighed, consciously softening his expression, "What is it? Tell me."
"I guess I just thought we would spending our time differently," she whispered looking away. He rose his brows. She was blushing.
He eyed her openly, then the door. They were alone, but he could hear voices filling the hallways now as students began to file into the hallway from their first classes. He knew she was free for the day until the evening, when her life drawing class took place, "Let's get lunch," he put aside the supplies and waved her closer, slipping an arm around her waist. It would be easy to take her, he thought, fixing his eyes on the unfastened button below her collarbone. Calmly, he reached up and fixed it, pushing the button into the threaded hole, "I'm sure we'll find something else to occupy our time."
He smirked and guided her towards the door.
