A broad galaxy of magnificent amalgamations of colors has dried over my skin, welcoming cracks to its surface when I shift my body. Every inch of my human textile creaks with a mixture of irritation and art, but there's no argument to whether or not I look awesome as hell. I'm stuck both on a metaphorical and physical plain.
My mind debates its options before I choose to speak. One side dictates that this paint is so fucking annoying once it has dried (which it has), but the other side dictates that I'm too much of a shitty friend on all other occasions, and that I need to do this one thing for Lent, and if this one thing is enduring a cloak of itching, so be it. I juggle with this, but my choice ultimately allows Lent to decide: whine about my dilemma, and then see what Lent does about it.
"God, this is so itchy," I complain, rocking around on my feet as if I'm a child in need of the restroom while sporting something disgusting their mother is forcing them to wear.
Lent pays no mind to me, familiar with my perpetually uncomfortable personality, and instead carefully runs his paint brushes under the trickling tap, grinding the bristles with his nimble fingers, and how majestic he appears when he works. "You can wash it off if you want, but I need to take a picture, because I worked too long and hard on this for it to go to waste from an intimate chafing problem."
"Just hurry up."
Even though Lent Rosella is my finest friend, standing in front of him as he takes a picture of me is disconcerting to say the least. He has seen me multiple times in this state, but a picture could go to anyone. Am I really ready for that? I ponder this question all throughout the time that it takes to snap a photo, and in an instant it's all over, and I cover myself up while hoping to avoid Lent's judgment about my shame towards my body. It's all over, I tell myself. It's all over. Until Lent speaks once more.
"Now it's your turn."
My heart turns its cheek from functioning. "What do you mean? You're gorgeous, but I doubt an art museum would appreciate a picture of you in your everyday clothing hanging on its walls."
"No, silly! I mean it's your turn to paint on me."
"Lent, I'm a writer, not an artist, and words don't magically manifest on skin with paint like your thoughts do."
"You're not confined to a singular title, rather a whole makeup of different identities that converges to create yours. You can be an artist and a writer."
His optimism is wonderful and all, something I really appreciate in a world stricken by madness and hatred, but I don't think he fully grasps what I am trying to say here. This is like a kindergartener scribbling on a canvas but this time the canvas is Lent's body. Somehow I'll mess up in ways that aren't conceivably possible.
"When I say I'm not an artist, I mean I'm really not an artist. I can barely draw stick figures, and even then, they're criticized and must be glared at for a few seconds before one can detect what they are."
"It doesn't have to be conventionally beautiful, Basil. It just has to be yours. Paint what you want, what you feel, what you are. That is the most beautiful thing."
Well damn. Does he have to be so smart all the time? So philosophical and wise far beyond his years. I thought I was the one minoring in philosophy. Maybe it's an innate characteristic that is brought about once one has reached a certain point in being an artist as a serious commitment.
"I'll do my best, but don't laugh at me."
A slight smile pecks at the right corner of Lent's lips. "I wouldn't dream of it." With his expression maintained, eyes nestled in mine, he slyly sneaks me a paintbrush and removes his shirt so that I can begin my masterpiece.
We wander over to the couch, where he drapes himself elegantly. I'm actually not sure if he draped himself over the couch in that manner as a joke or if I find him so elegant as a person that anything he does is one of the wonders of the world.
"I'm no Picasso, just so you know," I warn Lent, fiddling with the brushes and paints with whom I am not familiar. We have sustained no professional correspondence, yet I am somehow (and wrongfully) trusted with their magic.
"That's right. You're Basil Eads, and even if you only spend two minutes on this painting, anything is beautiful because it's from you."
"Close your eyes then. An artist can never be watched in his prime, as you must understand."
Lent rolls his eyes before eventually shutting them and relaxing into the sways of my brush along his skin.
I reflect for a while on what I want to paint. Lent does not protest, does not grow restless of my deliberation. He must be acquainted with this phenomenon of sparsity of inspiration. After some thought, I decide to take Loire's advice and just fucking do it. Confess my sordid feelings, my nasty inner workings.
Languidly I drag the paint brush over the canvas of Lent's skin. The first stroke. A letter – the letter I. Then a heart, red and fiery and passionate as it beats with the accordion sighs of affection. Then the direct object follows the others. This direct object is one I've tried to deny over and over, an object that haunts me in the daylight and once more in the moon's dusty film of night and never draws back. You.
My fingertips taste the skin of my reposing angel, collecting peace from within the layers. This is who I love. I am finally content with that.
When I've concluded that I've finished, I survey my painting once more, only a few words scrawled in what definitely wouldn't be deemed calligraphy, and prepare to give the okay sign. "Before you open your eyes, I just want to remind you once again that I am in no way, shape, or form Picasso, but I guess you can see my work now."
The ocean unravels piece by piece before me. The sun is reborn today and will be reborn invariably tomorrow. The world my angel's holy shrine. He glimpses the word after darkness as if being brought into the universe for the first time. Then he peers down at what note I left for his eyes to devour with curiosity.
Lent says nothing. I say nothing. He mutes me with his cherry blossom lips falling to mine for the winter whose chill has already arrived on the snowy mountains topping our flesh. The colors pressed into my body sing with delight. All is well.
As we abandon each other's lips with the sweet sorrow of young lovers, two words replace me on his own. "Picasso who?"
~~~~~
A/N: what in the hell of a fuck
well here u go,,,the baes are together ;))))))))
~Dickotass
ŞİMDİ OKUDUĞUN
Daedalus
Romantizm"He is the artist who colored me blue." In search of new experiences, the American writer and artist duo, Basil Eads and Lent Rosella, travel to the vastly cultural expanse of Europe for two weeks per city. This edition: Paris. They find a...
