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strangerverseI found myself, on returning from the Between the Wars conference, in a sombre frame of mind, as one does when there's been a death amongst one's acquaintances. And, as illogical as it probably sounds, I blame that sombre mood for what followed. Had I not been dwelling on death, perhaps the painting wouldn't have been imbued with the power I subconsciously gifted it. Hell, if I hadn't been tottering on the brink of maudlin excess, I might never have replied to the girl's messages at all—though I like to think I would have. I can never simply delete the emails of a damsel in distress, especially not one as young and lovely as Violet was then, and, more practically, I can never afford to turn down a serious commission. I had no sense of foreboding, not at the outset, not even when I was at work on the painting. All I felt was justifiable pride at what was surely one of my most striking and atmospheric works.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
The first message was indistinguishable from my usual fan mail. “I know you must be frightfully busy,” she wrote. “I've heard about your wonderful sessions, and I've seen some of your amazing art online. I'm sure the artwork must be very expensive, so perhaps I'm being unrealistic in hoping to commission one. Could you send me a price list for the different types of art? Maybe I could afford a sketch, or at least a consultation. Forgive me for being pushy, but I need you to get back to me soon. I don't have long to live. Sorry for the melodrama, but it's just how it is. In the meantime, it would be an honour just to hear back from you. As you can tell, I'm a huge fan.”
She wasn't the first person online to have told me she hadn't long to live, so I can be forgiven for never once considering the possibility that it was true. I don't keep anything so vulgar as a price list, but I could provide links to some of my commissioned work and delicately let her know the approximate amounts I'd got for them.
After two more emails from her, each as sincere in its admiration as the first, I agreed to meet her for a coffee at The Molten Angel. Of course I Googled her extensively beforehand, and checked out her friendslists and circles—sparsely populated, luckily for me—but there was no link to be found between her and anyone from my past, particularly not with any notable sceptics or haters. Perhaps it was the very paucity of her online connections that first moved me to pity. I'm no longer sure. But anyway, I agreed to meet her, and it was a gesture of pure kindness on my part—no fee was to be charged.
She was a beautiful girl, with straight, thick hair in an ashy blonde that was almost grey, and incredible blue eyes that I initially dismissed as contacts. She affected a frilly, toned down Gothic Lolita style, and had the blueish-purple fingernails, lips, and eyelids to match. She was also terribly, painfully young. Sixteen, she admitted when pressed. I wouldn't have been surprised to find fourteen was nearer the truth, but as it turned out her mother later confirmed her birth date for me.
We talked, at first about me and my work, and then about books and movies and RPGs, and three hours flew by before I'd come to my senses and returned to the subject of her hoped-for commission. I honestly wasn't sure if she could afford me—her age was a strike against her, but the exquisite clothes suggested indulgent parents—but she lowered her head shyly, looking up at me through a curtain of thick, heavily mascara'd lashes, and admitted she was hooked on my historical metaverse. I found myself listening in spite of myself.
The crossover-laden metaverse was my latest project, and I was highly enamoured of it. I'd been playing it close to my chest; it was fairly impressive that someone outside the ranks of my close friends had searched out the few fragments of it that had found their way online. I couldn't help but be charmed that she wanted to buy artwork based on the 'verse, and wanted, moreover, to insert herself into it. She wanted me to create a portrait of her, surrounded by my characters. It would give her, she said breathlessly, a sort of immortality.
But I'm getting ahead of myself.
The first message was indistinguishable from my usual fan mail. “I know you must be frightfully busy,” she wrote. “I've heard about your wonderful sessions, and I've seen some of your amazing art online. I'm sure the artwork must be very expensive, so perhaps I'm being unrealistic in hoping to commission one. Could you send me a price list for the different types of art? Maybe I could afford a sketch, or at least a consultation. Forgive me for being pushy, but I need you to get back to me soon. I don't have long to live. Sorry for the melodrama, but it's just how it is. In the meantime, it would be an honour just to hear back from you. As you can tell, I'm a huge fan.”
She wasn't the first person online to have told me she hadn't long to live, so I can be forgiven for never once considering the possibility that it was true. I don't keep anything so vulgar as a price list, but I could provide links to some of my commissioned work and delicately let her know the approximate amounts I'd got for them.
After two more emails from her, each as sincere in its admiration as the first, I agreed to meet her for a coffee at The Molten Angel. Of course I Googled her extensively beforehand, and checked out her friendslists and circles—sparsely populated, luckily for me—but there was no link to be found between her and anyone from my past, particularly not with any notable sceptics or haters. Perhaps it was the very paucity of her online connections that first moved me to pity. I'm no longer sure. But anyway, I agreed to meet her, and it was a gesture of pure kindness on my part—no fee was to be charged.
She was a beautiful girl, with straight, thick hair in an ashy blonde that was almost grey, and incredible blue eyes that I initially dismissed as contacts. She affected a frilly, toned down Gothic Lolita style, and had the blueish-purple fingernails, lips, and eyelids to match. She was also terribly, painfully young. Sixteen, she admitted when pressed. I wouldn't have been surprised to find fourteen was nearer the truth, but as it turned out her mother later confirmed her birth date for me.
We talked, at first about me and my work, and then about books and movies and RPGs, and three hours flew by before I'd come to my senses and returned to the subject of her hoped-for commission. I honestly wasn't sure if she could afford me—her age was a strike against her, but the exquisite clothes suggested indulgent parents—but she lowered her head shyly, looking up at me through a curtain of thick, heavily mascara'd lashes, and admitted she was hooked on my historical metaverse. I found myself listening in spite of myself.
The crossover-laden metaverse was my latest project, and I was highly enamoured of it. I'd been playing it close to my chest; it was fairly impressive that someone outside the ranks of my close friends had searched out the few fragments of it that had found their way online. I couldn't help but be charmed that she wanted to buy artwork based on the 'verse, and wanted, moreover, to insert herself into it. She wanted me to create a portrait of her, surrounded by my characters. It would give her, she said breathlessly, a sort of immortality.
no subject
Date: 2011-09-02 06:55 am (UTC)On his part, I believe. I hope.
I intend to read everything on this journal; I want to know everything there is to know about Darke. I'm quite smitten with him, literarily speaking.
no subject
Date: 2011-10-09 10:29 am (UTC)Thank you for spotting that. :)
Sorry for the enormous lapse of time between updates, but by next weekend I'll have more for here, and more for betaing at the regular place.