The brisk temperature and the steady tumult of the waves provide their usual calming influence, the clean, uncomplicated physical exertion imposing clarity. Glimpses pass before his eyes - long lean lines, graceful curves of movement, even the shadows at each joint and fold of skin, dusky hair both hidden and emphasized by the water - and he can feel his fingers twitch, longing for a graphite stick or a piece of charcoal, a clean sheet of paper, his thoughts teetering precariously, desperate for physical form, seeking a concrete outlet for the overspill of his mind's eye.
He barely realizes he's following, his movements mechanical and thoughtless - the dragging on of sandy clothes over salt-damp skin, a sense of inevitability to his steps back up the path towards the house. He's already sketching, making, creating, a thousand small invisible motions combined into an unknown whole, little glimpses all providing depth to what he is laying out on an invisible canvas.
The drawing room itself is not so much a surprise as an underlying facet to Joshua's understanding of his subject. Too early yet, to know what this structure would provide to his output, if he would be able to capture some sense of the true weight and substance of what he had been engaged to capture, but he wanted...
Joshua Archer stands, still a little damp and chill, his clothes clinging to him, and tries to find words, when his fingers are the part of him that are clamoring for an appropriate outlet.
"I... Is this how you want to be painted?" He gestures, awkwardly, to the room, the open doors, the curtains half drawn to let in what there was of the mid-morning light, revealing the dust motes and benign neglect of eclectic scattered belongings.
no subject
He barely realizes he's following, his movements mechanical and thoughtless - the dragging on of sandy clothes over salt-damp skin, a sense of inevitability to his steps back up the path towards the house. He's already sketching, making, creating, a thousand small invisible motions combined into an unknown whole, little glimpses all providing depth to what he is laying out on an invisible canvas.
The drawing room itself is not so much a surprise as an underlying facet to Joshua's understanding of his subject. Too early yet, to know what this structure would provide to his output, if he would be able to capture some sense of the true weight and substance of what he had been engaged to capture, but he wanted...
Joshua Archer stands, still a little damp and chill, his clothes clinging to him, and tries to find words, when his fingers are the part of him that are clamoring for an appropriate outlet.
"I... Is this how you want to be painted?" He gestures, awkwardly, to the room, the open doors, the curtains half drawn to let in what there was of the mid-morning light, revealing the dust motes and benign neglect of eclectic scattered belongings.