under the lightning,

Matouš Andrasko. Arts Dealer / Professor of Fine Arts at New York University's Institute of Fine Arts. Czech Republic immigrant. penned by roses for exclusivenyc

[gouxche]

TAG DROP  ↓  //   BIOGRAPHY.  CONNECTIONS.  HIS SON.  HEADCANONS.

[gouxche]

open starter! location: on the subway, going towards park slope, brooklyn @exclusivestarters​

     The ride back home from the university was long enough that when Matouš had finished doing what little work he could do from his phone, there was about half an hour’s time left over before he reached his platform. What had begun out of boredom, had now evolved into a habitual method of winding down after work. Even though the man spent all day teaching exactly this, mechanical pencil met the surface of paper in his sketchbook, and he took repetitious and studying glances up at the person across from him. Remaining silent for the majority of the ride, he drew them in fine detail, until the person caught him red-handed. Or, rather, graphite handed, and he gave a small but embarrassed huff. “I’m sorry—” he began, apology thick with slavic accent. “You just... you have very nice facial structure,” he explained, and flipped the sketchbook their direction to see. “If you want me to stop, I can?”

[gouxche]

valleyrcse​:

who: @gouxche​ where: the met what: in which valley’s totally super real art history degree starts to look a little less real

When Valley needed silence, she came here. The Met had a kind of solemn reverence to it that she assumed other people felt in churches. She could sit or stand for hours in here, just staring at every little detail of every little piece, finding something new in art she’d seen a thousand times. She loved it all so much, so fiercely, that it was easy to pretend that she’d actually studied it seriously. (…Usually, anyway.)

She’d been doing exactly that today, having been in the A New Look at Old Masters exhibit for over an hour already. Someone else seemed to be looking just as closely as she was - as opposed to just snapping silly Instagram photos and moving on - and she gave him a small smile. It surprised her a little to realize she wanted to talk to him, despite not even knowing the contents of his bank account. Maybe she really had changed.

“Which is your favorite?” she asked quietly.

.

     It wasn’t often that Matouš had some free time to himself. Between being a single dad, working full time at the university, and all of his little side projects, simply being able to step foot in an art gallery again was like taking a breath of fresh air. Despite being surrounded by art all day, living and breathing art as if it were his soul’s very nourishment, the professor hadn’t stepped foot in a gallery since arriving to the city, which he could now see was a shame—as he’d known The Met was famous for its collections, but never considered they might hold the very ‘Apollo pursuing Daphne’ that Giovanni Battista Tiepolo had touched with his brush some three centuries ago. As an artist, Matouš found the relativity palpable within the artwork he viewed now, following gaze along the masterful brush strokes, and airiness of the piece amongst its meaning. As a man, he allowed such meaning to pour down into him. As a hopeless romantic, he stood there, drifting into the canvas, relating to it, and considering his experiences—had he been, to Genevieva, Apollo? And she, Daphne—escaping the love that Apollo was so consumed by, by becoming the very quintessence of her nature?

     The professor stood there, arms placed comfortably over his chest, and found himself in deep thought, before a voice tore him away and back into the reality of this moment. “Mm?” he responded immediately, turning gaze to address the woman though his gaze still was glossed, as if far away, for just a few moments more. Then, he smiled, and it pressed dimples into his cheeks. There was a moment where he took one last glance around the collection displayed to consider an answer to her question, but his gaze still lingered on Tiepolo’s work. In heavy Slavic accent, he answered, “Apollo and Daphne. All of Tiepolo’s work is... cathartic, in my opinion. This one, though, it is almost, ah—vzdušný—” in the moment, he couldn’t recall the English word, so he gestured with his hands; airy. “This style of painting—Rococo, it’s one of my favorites. It’s very soft... Emotional. Apollo’s pursuit of Daphne, as her father attempts to protect her, and cupid,” he pauses for a soft chuckle. “Hiding from the very thing he created. See, Daphne asserts her autonomy over herself, and becomes nature—becomes a tree,” he explained, gesturing along the leaves growing from her hands. “A new life, one which can remain... and is held with freedom from Apollo’s love.” The final word he spoke faltered a bit. He didn’t delve into the nuances of what else this painting had resurrected within him, but instead turned full attention to the woman, quiet and attentive. “Are you an artist?” he wondered; many of the people who had been perusing the collections had been viewing for moments, even seconds, at a time, just to snap a photo and leave. This stranger, he’d noticed, hadn’t done such. “Which is your favorite?”

[gouxche]

Who is your favorite student? (NO SHAME HERE!)

"Definitely... Tyler Paquette." He grins, and then chuckles. "Yes, Valentine, you're my favorite student."

[gouxche]

dontdrxnkthewater​:

closed @gouxche​ location: Bistro for lunch

As much as she adored Tomas, and he filled her day with lots of giggles and snuggles and adventure, it was nice when she knew her day would come to a close and she could work on other things. He wasn’t her only client, either, so in between babies and four year olds it was nice to have a breather and edit some photos or go take new ones. “We have to wait! See, it’s red!” She points at the stop sign for the little boy, chubby hand reaching up to latch onto her slender fingers while they wait, still young enough to be afraid to cross the street on his own, but old enough to still himself while they wait. She’d prefer to put the leash on him, not so much because he needed one, but in the hustle and bustle of the city she was worried about losing him in a crowd or a rush sometimes. Even after almost half a year here, she hadn’t quite grown accustomed to how busy the streets could truly be at any hour of the day. Though, she refrained from the idea, she hadn’t spoken to Matouš about it yet, and she didn’t want to offend the man. He’d been so good to her, so kind, losing this position would probably break her heart. 

This little boy was lucky, she decided. He wouldn’t know it until much later, but this city housed so much opportunity, and given his fathers position, he would be able to choose his path and change it as much as he desired. Lydia wasn’t sure how long she’d be in his life, but she did know she would foster what she could in him while she was there. “Okay! Off we go now!” He holds onto her hand until the reach the other side of the street, letting go so he can walk and observe on his own, staying within arms reach and eyesight per her reminded request. Lydia glanced at her phone for the directions one last time before leading Tomas around the corner and into the sight of the bistro, Matouš coming into view on the outside patio. 

“There’s daddy!” Lydia pointed it out so the boys attention went from admiring the tall buildings to the man. His expression instantly changing as he ran forward to join his father as she trailed behind with a smile on her face. “He had dandelions for you but he dropped them.” She joked, sliding the kiddie bag off her shoulder and setting it to the side as she took a seat. 

.

     IF THERE WAS one thing Matouš had learned in the past four years, it was that being a father was the most difficult job in the world. The early rising, grading artwork, writing syllabuses... none of it compared to the fortitude that being a father required, much less a single father. Somehow, some way, he had managed to pull it off though. The screaming fits, the nights he would get a few naps in between bottle feeding, all of the tantrums his toddlerhood had brought—something he later reveled in finding out there was an American phrase called the terrible two’s. That got a knowing chuckle out of him. Nothing else compared to it, and nothing else was more rewarding. Becoming a father was simultaneously the best and most challenging thing he’d ever done. 

     For that reason, he was deeply grateful to have found Lydia. Hiring a babysitter was a delicate dance he was not unfamiliar with at this point—after all handing off his baby boy to someone he didn’t know well was downright terrifying to consider. The first time he’d had to make the decision to do such was back in Prague, with bills piling up over his head after his wife’s passing. On top of having to process his grief, manage his time even stricter than he’d had to do get his PhD, and somehow be the father to Tomas that he promised he would be... a babysitter might as well have been an angel; a savior. The hunt to find a safe babysitter in the city had been daunting at best. Lydia had proven to be one of the best decisions he’d made since stepping on American soil, and for that reason when the curly haired boy came into view, scampering towards him and yelling out, “Tatínek!” in their native tongue, Matouš broke into a wide, insuppressible grin. As the boy all but jumped into his arms, and he cradled his son to him like he might never let him go again, the man felt a sense of gratitude wash down on him that his son was always safe with Lydia, and that he never had to worry about being away or at work.

     For a few moments, he just held his son, feeling the relief of being reunited after a long morning away from him. “Chyběl jsi mi, Tomáši,” he mumbled into the boy’s hair, then pressed a kiss to his head, and set him down. “Okay, come on, let’s go eat,” he urged, as he took his own seat down at the table, and Tomas climbed into the last one. “Oh, that’s okay,” he reassured, ruffling the boy’s curls. “Just means we’ll be able to look for even more of them on the weekend.” A yawn overtook him then, as he looked over at Lydia, and then joked, “God, I might just order a bowl of coffee and call it a day. Did you guys get up to anything else fun today?”

[gouxche]

aylinxcohen​:

“Look. I don’t know you, but that does not look good on you.” Aylin said as she grabbed something else and handed it to the person. “I’m not saying it to be rude, but this brings out your eyes and would flatter you a lot more.” It was another day that Aylin was basically wasting, doing anything she could to get out of the house. It landed her in one of her favorite shops, seeing if they had anything she hadn’t bought yet. Seeing someone trying on clothes, she couldn’t help but interject. Her honesty was something that she took pride in. 

@exclusivestarters

.

     SHOPPING FOR new clothes wasn’t something Matouš did often but special celebrations called for special attire. His usual attire was rather simplistic—always going for pieces that he wouldn’t care much to discard if they happened to get paint all over them. But, a dress up party would require more than a plain t and jeans, even if it was for a five year old. Said soon-to-be five year old was the most important person in the world to him and he intended to make the birthday gathering as memorable as possible.

     The man glanced down, now in self doubt at his undershirt decision. While his son wanted to go to his party as a mermaid princess, Matouš chosen a dress shirt and some slacks, of which he anticipated would be covered in at least a few stains by the end of the night. “I like that one, but this one will match my son’s outfit,” he explained—though now that the stranger mentioned it, the vibrant sky blue was a bit harsh on the eyes. 

     A hand reached up to palm down his beard as he took a look back and forth between the shirt she’d passed over and the one he had on, assessing with an artist’s stare. “Well, this is now incredibly embarrassing to admit because I’m actually an artist, but... I think you’re right. Just one thing though—this one isn’t my size. And,” he took a glance over her shoulder at the rack behind her. “It looks like you might have grabbed the last one in the store. We could go on a, uh... hunt...” A short pause of hesitation as he wracked his brain for the English word he couldn’t remember. “Scavenger hunt,” he enunciated in a heavy Slavic accent. 

[gouxche]

stupidxlamb​:

“It’s not very often that I hear those words.” A devilish smile curls her sinfully crimson lips, her shoulders rising into a slothful shrug. It was a competition for her. Toying with him like a kitten does a mouse, razzing it, taunting it, hoping it’ll make the game that much more stimulating. But he was an unchanging man, capable of gracefully deflecting her advances with ease. “I’m thinking you’d rather do it at the University to spare yourself the temptation.” Again, another plow at eliciting some sort of reaction from the artist. They conferred it during their wine & text party, and she was well aware that the project would be nothing but venerating, but that wouldn’t stop her from prodding him. “Do you enjoy taking the fun out of everything?” Her hues narrow playfully as she glides to take one of the chairs he’d provided for them. “Just think how imaginative we could get with the pottery.” She leans forward, lashes batting. “Is that what you were paying attention to in the video?” A brow lifts, head slowly cocking to the side before she’s adding. “The song is a classic.” It indeed was a miracle he hadn’t gotten rid of her as a student yet. This would be considered sexual harassment anywhere else. Her attention falls to the tools he’s set out, her lesser bud falling victim to a barbarous gnawing. It was always nerve-wracking when they began testing out a new medium. His faith in her and her talents was far too optimistic for a pupil who’d barely been able to draw a tree when they first began their lessons. It takes her a moment to come up with her answer, but once it hits her, it’s a simple one. “Something beautiful.”

.

     HER WORDS echoed in his mind for a moment, as he situated himself at their work desk for the night. She prided herself on her prowess, he could see that much, and that she most certainly had prowess, but Matouš had always been a respectful man. It was as if it were woven into his very dna, passed down through generations of Andrasko men to respect the people around them for who they were. Could he respect her mastery of something he certainly had no footing in? Absolutely. Might he entertain it? Only in the process of dismissal. Though he had begun to find her antics more amusing than uncomfortable, tipping the scales from what they had been upon their first few meetings. “There’s a first for everything,” he responded, firmly, but still non-combative with the rejection. “New experiences shape us. It’s in the uncomfortable and unfamiliar that we find more of ourselves,” he mused aloud, always somehow able to redirect her seduction attempts into his own attempt at getting her to see the world with more depth, and draw that into her artwork. 

     “If you mean the temptation to be detailed and paint you with realism... Don’t worry, that will happen at the University.” He paused, finally looking away from the items he was setting up, to land his gaze and full attention on her, as he might imagine her end goal to be with this banter. Dark, calculating eyes lingered for just a moment after she finished about the song, and then a small half smile pressed into his stubbly cheeks, revealing the dimple that accompanied it. “Now, I’m wounded. You don’t find my lessons fun?” The artist paused once more, and then more seriously, “If you’d like to learn pottery, we can.”

     Something beautiful. That drew a genuine grin from him, and he nearly opened his mouth to ramble on about how all art was beautiful, and how beauty could be found in even artwork that gave the worst first impression. But he didn’t want to bore her. Though he was very certain she could keep up with him, he’d always gotten this feeling that divulging in such conversations were a little too close for comfort to her. Instead, the man reached for one of the knives, and passed it over to her with purpose. “Don’t look so afraid. Whatever you make, it will come out as beautiful. If you have no inspiration, just... begin. Let its form come to you in the process.” 

[heartfulloffandoms-deactivated2]

[sophiehayes]

@jackscn-rhcdes

[gouxche]

closed starter to @mcddox​ location: le botaniste restaurant - manhattan

     AS HE sat waiting for Kieran’s arrival,  Matouš absentmindedly scrolled through his emails, trying to find the email from the potential buyer that had inquired about one of Kieran’s pieces. Even despite Kieran having dropped out of his class, the man took him under as something of a mentor regardless, and found no problem in dealing his art for free. After Kieran had told him about the financial stress that had driven him from NYU, he’d offered to deal his art in an effort to help the other man get a leg up in this unforgiving city. If Kieran couldn’t continue to study because all of his funds had to be circumvented into helping his mother, Matouš wouldn’t take no for an answer when he offered his services. 

     So now he was there stabbing fork into some concoction of tofu and quinoa. Normally he might not have chosen a plant-based restaurant to meet up in, but it was killing two birds with one stone. At home, his son had been increasingly more concerned about having a pet chicken, and didn’t seem to quite understand yet that chicken the animal was also chicken the food, and Matouš had a feeling once that happened, the boy would want to stop eating meat. He figured he might as well get used to eating and creating meatless dishes before that happened. As Kieran finally arrived, he lifted napkin to his lips and gestured for him to sit across. “Hey, man,” he greeted, with a glance up and over from his phone. “How’s your mom doing? Get those test results back yet?”

[gouxche]

milxstogo​:

@gouxche​

Having friends in the city his own age that had kids the same age as his was fantastic. Ava was always a tricky one. Her friends parents always judged him, but no one claimed he had to be best friends with any of them. She had the house to herself tonight as Milo took the boys over to Matouš house for a little sleepover. As much as he’d love to say Hale would spend the night and he’d take Jay and go back home, he knew it wasn’t going to happen when the wine came out. After the boys were asleep, he sat down to properly catch up with one of his best friends.

“Mat, I know you won’t lie to me. Tell me it ain’t weird to be a grown ass man looking at downloading hook up apps,” he chuckled, leaning back on the couch and sipping on his wine. “I don’t have time to go out and meet people with 3 kids and 2 jobs. Sometimes you just…I got needs, ya know?”

.

     BEING A single dad in the city had had its challenges and more often than not, it was some sort of olympic sport to try to carve out fun experiences for Tomas, though Matouš always pulled it off somehow. Typically that meant fulfilling Tomas’ request to go to the aquarium again, even if they’d already gone twice that week already. He never minded too much, as the aquarium was one of the only places he could get Tomas to just calm down and relax. For how much of a spitting image Tomas was of his father, the apple fell far from the tree in terms of temperament.  Matouš recalled his own parents telling him he’d been an angelic child. His own might as well be the tasmanian devil, and getting him to even get down for bed was such a task that the man happily obliged his best friend in sharing a bottle of wine. The dark red liquid swirled in his own glass as he took time to sample its olfactory notes before taking a sip—it was Czech wine, but one he’d never opened before that night. 

     A gentle chuckle rumbled through him as he leaned forward to grab the remote, and exit out of the cartoon movie that was playing. “That’s not weird at all,” he promised, voice thick with his accent. “Would I personally use one of those apps? Probably not... but I’ve heard my students talk about how it’s still hard to get anyone to meet up with you. Have you had any luck? With your ‘needs’, I mean?” he chuckled and then brought wine to lips.

[gouxche]

stupidxlamb​:

It had begun as yet another one of her outlandish ploys to get under her mother’s skin. A waste of time and money for a daughter who never showed the mildest interest in such things. A novice creator, unable to divulge the difference between oil and acrylic paints. But time had been her confidante and her instructor patient and nurturing, even with her unchanging exuberance. He handled her with undeserving grace and encouragement, and perhaps that’s what motivated her—silently convincing her to put in the duration and effort such a craft deserved. The ride over was her inspiration for the evening, a symphony of constant blaring taxi horns married with the buzz of boisterous New Yorkers crossing the streets. The desperate fume of ambition and desire clung heavily in the dusk sky. A backdrop of shimmering violet meeting rustic amber; A magnificence she’d been sightless to before her studies with Matouš. Her arrival was accompanied by the acidic kiss of coffee, mixing with the sweetened scent of her perfume, A signature blend of lilac and elderberry. Delicate palms bear a drink holder, two sugared americanos in tow. “Professor.” His greeting is returned with a demure simper, the bridge of her nose crinkling slightly. “Oof. You wound me.” She enters, gracefully spinning on the tippy-toes of her heels to meet his gaze as she saunters back into his home. “It’s as if you want me to ditch you.” He wouldn’t be getting rid of her that easily. “What can I say? I’ve been bit by the artist bug. You can blame yourself for that.” The words melt from her lips in a teasing manner as she removes one of the beverages from the holder, offering it up to him. “Don’t worry, I coming bearing fuel to get you through our lesson.” After all, it was a special day; they were finally moving away from paints to dip their toes into the world of pottery. “Shall we retire to the studio? I’m looking forward to getting my hands dirty.” An impish grin follows before she travels the familiar path to his workplace. Valentine doesn’t wait to make herself comfortable, placing her coffee and bag down on a spare table, hands lift to twist her crimson locks into a messy bun, ruby ringlets mirroring her pale features. “Is this dress appropriate for today’s activities?” Her attire was never suitable for their exercises, but that never stopped her from sporting the expensive garb. “I could always take it off.” Ivory nips into the plump flesh of her lesser lip before she giggles, reaching for one of the stained aprons that are always available for use.

.

     A GENTLE smile interrupts his expression as he yawns, and right on queue there is a coffee being offered to him. It was a kind gesture; one that not many of his students might have ever attempted to make. Though working together for over eight months provided for that kind of camaraderie, and Matouš easily fell into their usual banter. Valentine had been one to throw him for a loop when they first met, for exactly this reason. Her way of communication was something he was unaccustomed to. Hell, everything about her outside of her artistic ability was something he was unaccustomed to, but apart from her little flirtatious quips, he felt they’d become the most unlikeliest of friends within their working relationship. As such the coffee she brandished was brought to his lips with a small moment to appreciate the comfort of its warmth and taste. “No, never,” he vowed, and took relaxing strides back into the lowest level’s art studio. “And I absolutely will take full credit,” he joked on the way. The large wooden racks storing canvases of various sizes greeted them and he gave a small shake of his head, and somewhat amused sigh as she started with the first comment of the evening. 

     “Keep your dress on,” he insisted, small chuckle rumbling from his chest. “We can do the portrait some other time. Preferably at the university, so there’s no chance Tomas gets his first introduction to nude art.” He’d begun wondering if she did this intentionally, to see his reaction. After all even in the text conversation that preceded the lesson, about how they could venture into pottery, she’d teased him about having a Ghost moment, as she’d put it. The artist allowed her to put on an apron but didn’t bother putting one on of his own. Within the mastery of the craft, he’d also gotten proficient at keeping himself clean while the artwork he worked on came together. The only effort he did make was by setting down his coffee on his empty drafting table, and rolling sleeves up to his forearms. “Besides, we’re not making pottery. Sculpturing is a bit less messy than that movie you sent me.” He then cleared his throat, pulled up two stools to the table he’d moved in the center of the room, and got out various mediums. Clay, wood, and a small slab of marble. Then the tools they’d need to chip away at those mediums and shape them: knives, point chisel, gouge chisel. “Do you have something in mind you wanted to create?”

[gouxche]

dontdrxnkthewater​:

closed starter: @gouxche​ location: NYU art building

Using his hands came naturally. Limbs and appendages always seeming to be able to put themselves in the right place, moving like water through a canyon, mechanical actions like a well oiled machine were things that Ty never had to think much about. Sports, dancing, fighting, driving different vehicles, all those things were just natural to him. His fine motor skills were defined enough to be steady hands when needed, not a tremor detected. Now, trapped in the too sunny room, surrounded by students much younger than him, and way more talented than him, he realized; maybe this wasn’t going to be a walk in the park for him. 

Motor skills are just part of the battle, and while he could perform certain tasks, apparently drawing a fucking circle just wasn’t one of them. The spaces of his brain that he’d left empty for topics more relatable to him like certain reaction chains, biology break downs, mixed drinks or how to case a house were now being used to the history and terminology of art. Talent be damned, he was going to pass this class. 

Raw determination to graduate on time was fueling him, but as he glanced over at the girl next to him, her canvas perfectly shaded, not a line or curve out of place, His eyes went to his own, dark marks, the remnants of lines he’d long erased, and was the the hand? As his lips purse and twist off to the side, he catches her blonde locks in the evening sun, head turned as she looks at his work, her expression telling him everything he needed to know before she snapped her gaze back to her own work. Thankfully, he didn’t have to live with the shame long, students started packing up their work and putting things away, but Tyler decided to stay a little longer. This had to get done, and though it might make him late for work, he had to get this assignment right. Students are filing out and he swivels to the professor, popping out an earbud as he waits for a moment to address the man. “Is it okay if I stay a little longer? I think I might need to start over…”

.

     AN AFTERNOON in the Arts department of NYU tended to be rather quiet and tranquil; an endless serenity that fostered imagination and gave one the ability to hear their own thoughts. Matouš’ classroom maintained that environment. The inspiration was nearly palpable amongst his students. In general, when he taught beginner level classes, he expected there to be some struggling, but it was rare that anyone came into his lessons so clearly having never attempted to create before. Where dimension and gradient came elegantly, almost inherently, to some... to others, well, the professor wasn’t taken aback when students struggled to wrap their minds around proportions or using light and the lack thereof to create depth. Those students tended to have at least picked up a drawing pencil at least once before in their lives; had some sort of prior experience to call on when he rolled out the canvases and passed them the charcoal. 

     So when Tyler had approached at the end of the lesson, after all the others filed out,  Matouš first nodded with easy acceptance of such. He didn’t have another hands-on lesson to teach for the next hour, and he’d never been the type to not offer his help where a student might need it. But after taking it upon himself to get up and go view the man’s artwork, to perhaps provide some guidance or a mere assessment—after all, most artists tended to criticize their own work unfairly—he found himself surprised. For once, and after the initial shock that silently flickered onto his features, he turned to give the student a gentle and reassuring smile. That same gentleness extended into his tone, and he gestured for Tyler to take a seat again as he spoke, and pulled up a stool of his own. “Ah. I see...” he began, voice thick with Slavic accent, then sort of hesitated for a moment as he chose his words. “This isn’t terrible. Your pencil pressure could use some improving... shading, uh... proportions. But, this is...” He paused again, offering another gentle smile, adorned with dimples. “Is this your first time trying to draw realistic objects?”

     He then scooted the stool a bit closer so he could begin demonstrating, of course, without the heart to tell the student that, yes, the canvas would have to be scrapped. Under normal circumstances, outside of teaching, he might have been able to find an appreciation for what Tyler had created, and encouraged him to continue, but what sat on his canvas then didn’t even remotely resemble an eye. He’d been proud to find that some of the other students had completely hyper-realistic versions. Silently, he wondered if Tyler hadn’t been too afraid to call him over because everyone else had been drawing with more ease. “Any good drawing starts with your pencil. You want to hold it from the back, so you achieve the lightest pressure possible. As you progress in the drawing, then you can begin to grip, but...” he paused, now pointing over at Tyler’s drawing. “You see here? These erasure marks. If you can see where you erased, you’ve put too much pressure in those lines to erase them. Sometimes you can transform them by layering more shading on top...” he trailed off, glancing over Tyler. A moment later, he offered him the pencil. “Forget that. Try to draw the circle holding your pencil from the back.”

[danilakozlovsky]

I saw your face reflected on the resonant screen

[gouxche]

Matouš Andrasko - Moodboard

[gouxche]

@exclusivemusings

[gouxche]

closed starter to @stupidxlamb​

location: his home studio 

     THE BACKDROP of the city’s skyline, now dimly lit against an impending twilight, bled in through the studio’s high-mounted windows—an architectural feature that those not as well acquainted with canvas and medium might not have recognized as being very intentional. When Matouš had bought his townhome and converted the third bedroom into a studio, finding a way to open the space to natural lighting had been quite important to him. So, in a way, he held a bit of disappointment that his current schedule only allotted for freelance lessons squeezed into small sections of his day, typically those after the sun’s radiance was already gradating into its opposite. 

     Could he truly be dismayed by having to create art in the evening, though? As he believed all things did, evening had its appreciative qualities even if it didn’t exactly serve the task at hand. For instance, the sound of crickets, lulled into a rhythmic melody that coasted in through said window alongside the comfortable springtime wind, created for a very relaxing moment to lose himself in, which is what he was doing when Valentine had arrived. Eyes closed, inhaling the night, and feeling his relativity to it, until he heard the doorbell. 

     He was rightly exhausted, but he’d begun making sure he had time for Valentine’s lessons even when he’d much rather unwind on the couch. Her artistic ability had grown exponentially over the past nine months, and even when he had to tuck lessons into the few hours he had left before sleep was non-negotiable, the artist felt it was worth it, and he greeted the woman with a smile all the same. The tired grin, adorned with dimples, reached his eyes. “Valentine,” he acknowledged, deep voice thick with slavic accent. “I’m starting to think you’ll never miss a lesson. Usually by now I’ve been ghosted at least once.” A pause, to step aside from the front door. “Come on in.” 

[gouxche]

MATOUŠ ANDRASKO — THE AESTHETE INTRODUCTION.

Not everyone can say they’ve been to the Big Apple, but  [ MATOUŠ ANDRASKO ], a [ FORTY-ONE ] year-old [ CISMALE ] has lived in [ PARK SLOPE, BROOKLYN ] for [ ONE YEAR ]. This is the city of dreams and [ HE ] knows it, because they came to NYC to be an [ PROFESSOR OF FINE ARTS AT NYU & ARTS DEALER ]. Well, that and as an [ FORMER CLIENT ] to [ ELIZABETH MARTINEZ ] and a [ CURRENT ART TEACHER ] to [ VALENTINE KNIGHTLY ] . Living in the city means they meet all kinds of people, but everyone always seems to think they look like [ STEVE KAZEE ]. They even got away with free cab fare once because of it!

THE FOLLOWING INTRODUCTION CONTAINS POTENTIALLY TRIGGERING SUBJECTS, INCLUDING: spousal death/suicide, divorce, infidelity, child abandonment, post partum depression, professor and student relationship, heartbreak

— DEMOGRAPHICS.

Full Name: Matouš Andrasko Nickname(s): Mat, Matty, Professor Age: 41 Date of Birth:  February 23rd Hometown: Prague, Czech Republic Current Location: Park Slope, Brooklyn Ethnicity: Czech Nationality: Czech, in America on Work Visa Gender: Cismale Pronouns: He/Him Orientation: Pansexual Religion: Agnostic Political Affiliation: Democratic Occupation: Professor of Fine Arts at New York University’s Tisch School of Art / Arts Dealer / Freelance Art Teacher Language(s) Spoken: Czech natively, English fluently

— BIOGRAPHY.

     THERE was still a blanket of snow nestled atop the grass outside of the Andrasko household, fluffy and quiet, on the humble January morning that Matous was birthed into this world, to become the third and final son of Jakub Andrasko and Adéla Andraskova. A home birth—chosen by his mother for its intimacy and primitivity alongside a father whispering words of encouragement to his wife, his palm smoothing down her hair lovingly as they brought Matous into life. The Andrasko household was one of nurturing and flourishment amongst their long lived wealth from owning several art museums and galleries across the continental Europe. They had effectively monopolized the niche career scope, and it allowed them to live lavishly, although they always made sure their sons knew what they had and how others weren’t so fortunate. Matous’ childhood was well rounded and arguably perfect for a long time. He had all the resources he could have ever asked for to foster his potential, and his parents having both been well-known sculpturists, attempted to nurture the artistic potential of all their kin. While his brothers, Andrej and Filip, took to it quickly in their own youth, Matous seemed to be rooted in more concrete things. He took a liking to the scientific world, and his parents, although disappointed, allowed him to explore his interests freely. In his newly emerging teenagehood, he hardly noticed when things started to go awry in his family, too enamored with the biochemical and biophysical makeup of the world. So when suddenly, one morning his mother had disappeared along with all of her belongings, had abandoned their family, it sidelined Matous. His father had protected his sons from their marriage turmoils until he couldn’t any longer, and on one fate deciding day in June, Jakub sat his boys down, and explained to them that their mother was gone, and she wouldn’t be coming back.

( CONTINUE READING... )

[nathandaily]

you’re my son, I love you, I need you to be safe.