"Mm, scusi, you're right. I did want to take a closer look at that." He wipes his hands on the cloth napkin beside him with a careless grace. The servants bustle about, clearing the table silently for them as Alecto reaches for the folio, fingertips dancing along the edges as he starts to flip through its well worn pages, the candlelight nearby gently illuminating every new reveal.
"...Lovely," he murmurs to himself as he studies a variety of sketches, aborted ideas, random studies. All over there are smears of charcoal given life under a studious, dedicated, and passionate hand; carefully applied pigment adding depth and perspective and light. Sprawled everywhere else are fragments of strangers: faces half finished, as if caught mid turn, just a brief impression of a gaze, of a singular and temporary moment cemented forever in a few strokes of ink; lifted hands rendered with startling detail in warm, red chalk, reaching for something unseen.
Alecto finds himself thoroughly charmed by this small collection as he nears the end of it. It leaves him almost a little breathless, as if he had witnessed something private and soulfully personal.
He can tell his painter is a humble man of humble means. It was easy enough to surmise from just his clothes today and mannerisms but even more so now that examples of his work have been revealed. For an artist, is there anything more intimate? Unconventional materials turned to paint on several pages give multiple reference studies a unique texture or hue not normally seen in the works of the classically trained (and adequately paid), for example. It's clear that Joshua has had to make do with what was available, has been forced by circumstance and a lack of steady support and patronage to become imaginative, resourceful, and creative.
Alecto finds that he's...surprisingly charmed by this and he turns his attention fully back onto the man sitting before him, holding his own hands as if willing them to behave and not give away his nerves.
"Why did you decide to become a painter, Mr. Archer?"
no subject
"...Lovely," he murmurs to himself as he studies a variety of sketches, aborted ideas, random studies. All over there are smears of charcoal given life under a studious, dedicated, and passionate hand; carefully applied pigment adding depth and perspective and light. Sprawled everywhere else are fragments of strangers: faces half finished, as if caught mid turn, just a brief impression of a gaze, of a singular and temporary moment cemented forever in a few strokes of ink; lifted hands rendered with startling detail in warm, red chalk, reaching for something unseen.
Alecto finds himself thoroughly charmed by this small collection as he nears the end of it. It leaves him almost a little breathless, as if he had witnessed something private and soulfully personal.
He can tell his painter is a humble man of humble means. It was easy enough to surmise from just his clothes today and mannerisms but even more so now that examples of his work have been revealed. For an artist, is there anything more intimate? Unconventional materials turned to paint on several pages give multiple reference studies a unique texture or hue not normally seen in the works of the classically trained (and adequately paid), for example. It's clear that Joshua has had to make do with what was available, has been forced by circumstance and a lack of steady support and patronage to become imaginative, resourceful, and creative.
Alecto finds that he's...surprisingly charmed by this and he turns his attention fully back onto the man sitting before him, holding his own hands as if willing them to behave and not give away his nerves.
"Why did you decide to become a painter, Mr. Archer?"