Paints-with-toes

Nice to meet you! I'm Rob and I'll be your best friend if you let me. I love to paint and make friends and if I can make friends who paint, even better!

[paints-with-toes]

damionkillgrave‌:

“Hurtful? Hey, look, Robert, do we need to rewind the tapes here? You’re calling me out for stealing my own identity. And do you know in the muse world that’s considered outright slander when you talk about someone giving off the wrong vibes? Words hurt, buddy! Save it for the eulogy! Because guess who has two thumbs and has had it up to here? This guy!” With a swift gesture to himself, Damion took a step back before another turn. “And don’t google me! I don’t deserve to be found on whatever fetish site you’re headed towards.”

“Give me one good reason to believe you’re Damion. Give me one reason why you’d be the person that our family has depended on for generations. If its true then you must have been a much nicer person before. I was told stories about how helpful and nurturing you were to our family’s artists, how your help brought our family out of poverty. How without you, we’d never have made it as a family to America. So which is true? The stories I’ve heard or the stories you’ve told. They can’t both be true. I won’t accept it.”

[paints-with-toes]

opheliajmes​:

“oh—” his stream of words was overwhelming, completely shutting her off from any other reaction. she listened to it all, processing his thoughts, but she couldn’t think of a response in return. “it’s just, painting with words.” she tried to summarize what he was saying, hoping that said with a small smile it would be taken as a normal addition to the conversation, not her losing her grip on what was happening around her. “you’re right, i probably am just—” she cast her gaze downward, the pale floor that offered up no defense, only its simplicity to allow her the chance to breath. “that’s a nice way to put it, appreciate the work.” it was kind, to assume that every work required the same amount of dedication. “are you always so—nice.”

“I don’t think its ‘just’ painting with words, but yeah thats the idea. All artists are telling a story we wish the onlooker to see. The medium doesn’t matter much to me though. Its all great and a testament to the human spirit.” She looked even more overwhelmed from when they started talking and he wasn’t sure he was helping matters much. He wasn’t sure how he could help in this situation. He had been told plenty of times that you can’t help everyone and that some people don’t want your help and all that. He didn’t necessarily believe that in its entirety but it had proven to be at least partially true a few times. “I wouldn’t say that. I’m just me.” He shrugged. He never really set out to be nice, just to be a good person in hopes that it would help others become the same. “So what brings you here?”

[paints-with-toes]

damionkillgrave‌:

“I swear by my hand…” Damion muttered under his breath, teeth showing through the words as his eyes squinted up at the ceiling, as if God himself could reach down and slap the shit out of Rob for him. He took a moment, one of his own hands coming to the bridge of his nose as he pinched the skin tightly. “What pray tell,” he started before looking at him again, “the fuck?–Are you my stalker, pal? Are you the reason my trash looks like it got ransacked by some raccooon mafia? I thought it was Fred, but… now, I don’t know!” His hands raised before slapped to his hips, looking him over with tightened eyes, marred with confusion over the entire situation. “Also, I do not give off bad vibes, FYI. So, jot that down.”

"And I swear by my family that you are not Damion. I haven’t talked to my cousin in a few years but I know he wouldn’t have taken inspiration from someone so hurtful. And no, I’m not stalking you, and I’m not stalking Damion Kilgrave, which isn’t you. Damion Kilgrave is my family’s muse and the entire reason I had the courage to become an artist. You cannot tell me that it was all for nothing and that we’ve been taking our inspiration from someone like you.” Rob had let this get personal, too personal maybe. He was known as a kind person, as a good man, but this man opposite had put him in a really negative space. “You give off the worst vibes.”

[paints-with-toes]

opheliajmes‌:

shaky was one word for the heightened state of anxiety crowds brought her. she didn’t know when she’s started seeing everyone as a potential enemy. the next person who might drag her into inky black torture, flashes of pain still embedded in her every thought. “ophelia, the pleasure is mine.” she nodded finally, the tip of her head that’s leftover from when curtsies were still in fashion. “i don’t really, i don’t judge paintings, i—” there wasn’t much to say about the painting that they were in front of, besides the fact that it made her heart race with some unknown. if the black splotches were taking over the canvas, what could that mean. “i’m more of a writer.” or at least those were her bonds, the girl herself brought little to the table, besides some melancholy suffering. “i don’t understand it much.”

"Nice to meet you, Ophelia! Writing sounds fun. You get to tell all kinds of magical stories. Writers can paint as vivid of images as any painter can for sure. Writers can transport you to another time and place and make you really feel their words. Its quite wonderful really. I’m a painter. I just put pictures to canvas and hope that someone enjoys them.” He watched her face. She was pretty, not unusually so but definitely attractive. He wondered what could put someone so on edge but he didn’t want to pry. That would be considered rude he was sure. “Maybe you’re thinking too much into it. You don’t necessarily need to understand it as much as you just need to accept it. You just have to accept the art for what it is and appreciate it for the work and dedication that went into it.”

[paints-with-toes]

cooperisms‌:

cooper’s brows knitted together incredulously, doing a double take to the rats to make sure they were in fact still right there. they were–and yet this babyface weirdo was worried more about cooper spilling his coffee. “right yeah, ‘cause out of all the things the owner’s of this place need to worry about, me spilling bean water is right up there at the top of the list.” did he think the rats were part of the gallery? something stupid and meta about the city being alive and reclaiming itself from all the pretentious assholes who visited places like this? cooper shook his head, deciding that just dropping it would be easier. “what–? no, kinda? not really..” he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. “i do tattoos. i just like to see what everyone else is putting out into the world.” he said the words dismissively. “you?”

"The owner isn’t the concern, its the art. What if you damaged the art? Someone put hours upon hours into each one of these. You get it right, you’re a tattoo artist. Those take hours too I think. A lot of dedication goes into the arts.” He swung around to face more towards the man. “I’m Rob. I paint things. I don’t have any work in a gallery or anything but I like to think that I’m okay. I can appreciate a man who can appreciate art. I think its all magnificent. I think no matter what other people say that all art is valid and has meaning and real value behind it.”

[paints-with-toes]

opheliajmes‌:

she was trying to go on walks. trying was the operative word, she hardly made it more than a few blocks of her brownstone in the middle of the day. everything was so crowded, people always in a rush with somewhere to go. she knew the city was not the place for her—but that was the problem, no where was the place for her. she may as well struggle in vain. “it —” she tried to think of what to say, she looked around trying to see some kind of magic in what she found to be overall overwhelming. the gallery was supposed to be a refuge, but she couldn’t quite catch her breath, let alone give the art the attention it deserved. “is it?”

"It is! And are you okay? You’re looking a little bit... I don’t know... shaky?” Rob inched towards the woman. He wasn’t sure what to think of her, but if she was in the gallery she obviously must like art so they’d have something in common. “I’m Rob, by the way. Nice to meet you. Whats your name?” He continued to look around before pointing at a painting on the wall. At a glance it would have just been black and white splotches. But Rob felt it was so much more. It felt like entropy and disorder. It felt like the chaos that led some artists to fail and some artists to succeed, regardless of the merit of their comparative works. It was a prime example of how anyone could make it if just all of the right moving parts came together for them. Or if they had a muse. “I like that one over there. Which ones your favorite?”

[paints-with-toes]

damionkillgrave‌:

The look on Damion’s face said it all the moment Rob’s first group of encouragement came out. Accept him? “Jesus Christ. What are you starting? A cult? It sounds like a cult.” But that wasn’t the kicker. The real kicker was when Rob’s tone turned over a new leaf, telling him who he wasn’t. The expression just sank further into disbelief, brow furrowed, eyes narrowed, lips parted like he was at a loss. “Hold the fuck up–” His eyes squinted shut, a sharp twist in the head with his fingertips to his temples, trying to piece together the information that had just been hurtled in his direction. “You’re— Ah… shit.” It hit him, hands lowering, clutching around his hips. “You’re part of that side… Cool beans.” The back of his hand brushed at his nose, head tilting up as he looked down at him. “Don’t meet your heroes, kiddo. That’s the take-away from this. Why don’t you do me a favor and shoot all that in a text to the rest of your family? Throw in a fire emoji or whatever. It goes with the whole roast in Hell vibe they gave me.”

“Stop pretending to be him. You. Are. Not. Him. Damion Killgrave isn’t a grump with depression, hes an inspiring muse who helped my family over the centuries and inspired them to create such great art. While I haven’t met him personally, I know enough to know that hes a kind and nurturing man who wouldn’t put such bad thoughts and vibes out in the world, okay? And yeah, he is my hero. I just know that one day he’s going to show up and help me take my art to the next level. I’ve worked my whole life to be an artist that is worthy of my family’s muse.”  Rob paused. “Its a cruel thing that you’ve done, trying everything you can to hurt someone’s dreams.”

[paints-with-toes]

yo u selling toe pics?

"Am I what?” Rob was confused. He had heard there were people into these things but he tried not to judge. He had never personally been propositioned for this type of request before. “No, I.. I um.. no I don’t think I am.”

[paints-with-toes]

damionkillgrave‌:

Damion didn’t even notice the pigment loss in the other’s face, certainly not enough to attribute it to what he was saying. He was too busy with a face drawn forward, looking into the art-piece with empty eyes, lips pursed upward to numbly let the inner-workings of his mind take control than the finest level of the consciousness. But then! ROB. Just had to shake him out of it! “Hey, kiddo, I’m trying to give this dissociating thing a chance here. Isn’t your generation like the Lewis and Clark of this? What’s your damage?” His arms crossed against his chest, loosely held there before giving another look over at him. “Are you calling me crazy? I’m not crazy. I’m depressed. Lord, stop feeding the stigma, bud. What are you going to do next? Give me leeches? Fun fact, they hurt like a bitch.” He would know. Once. Maybe. It sounded familiar. Maybe he was mixing it up with a Masterpiece Theatre episode. He shook his head, waving it off. “I was an artist. Not to flex, but I’m in the British Museum, not this rinky-dink crapshoot.–Damion Killgrave.”

"Oh, you’re depressed. That makes sense. I get sad sometimes when people don’t want to be my friend. I understand how you feel and accept you.” Rob stopped. “No, you’re not. You’re not Damion Killgrave.” He knew the name. His family knew the name. His family’s history was built on that name. “The Damion Killgrave I heard about would not be so gloomy. He’s a hero. He saved my family for generations. And he wouldn’t be the type of person to sit around all sad. He knows hes important and he matters. Take it back!” Rob stopped, he usually was hard to rile up, his ever so friendly outlook rattled by this man. Damion Killgrave was his family’s muse, practically worshiped by his family and this man simply did not fit the bill.

[paints-with-toes]

damionkillgrave‌:

He gave a look to his side, a slow wind-up to taking in the sight of the kid beside him with one eye squinting. Seemed harmless enough, like a fish out of water, but it was easy to tell when there was optimism to be had. Damion’s had been squashed like the cockroach that was running up the wall should have been. “Sure, buddy,” he told him, face like one who was seeing someone that he knew was going to walk out these doors and get hit by a bus. Only the good die young or something like that. He looked back at the painting, words just trickling out with the help of a subconscious fervor. “You keep that up. It’s not like all your hopes and dreams will go down the drain one-by-one until you’re just waiting for the sweet jaws of death to take over.–You got this.”

The color dropped from Rob’s face along with the smile. “Thats a horrible thing to say to someone you don’t even know. You sound sad though so I forgive you. I know sometimes we can be grumpy when we’re feeling low. Are you okay? Do you need to talk about anything?” He knew when someone needed a friend more than anything. An outlook so bleak could only be solved with friendship, he was certain. “I’m Rob, I was just around here admiring the art. Is any of it yours? I know a lot of artists tend to struggle with mental illness.”

[paints-with-toes]

cooperisms‌:

new york was kinda a shit show–but that’s probably why cooper felt so at home here. it was loud and messy and full of strange people, which in short meant it was a city full of his favorite things: distractions. sipping on a cup of decaf, cooper watched two rats fight over the crumbs of a bagel. “what do they feed you fuckers.” he questioned, taking a few steps back from them. upon hearing the stranger’s question, cooper looked at him with uncertainty. “uh–yeah. it’s beautiful. i especially love the sight of over-sized rodents having fight club like two feet away from me.”

Rob hadn’t noticed there were rats in the gallery. And he hadn’t noticed the man who seemed to come up next to him. “I dont think you’re supposed to bring drinks in here. What if you spilled some on the art?” He wasn’t going to let the man’s observations bring him down though. He continued to look around at the pieces on the walls. Each one telling its own story he was sure. He imagined the dedication that each one of them took to their story. He thought it was magnificent. Even though he told his own stories and made his own paintings, he never got over how good the ones he saw were. He turned back to the man.  “Are you an artist as well?”

[paints-with-toes]

Rob had been in New York for a while. Not all his life, but long enough that he felt he had a pretty deep understanding of the city, of the bustling streets, the life force of the people who flowed to and fro from the sidewalks, the veins of the city. And each one of those people was a friend he hadn’t made yet. Sure, some of them wouldn’t want to be his friend. He knew deep down that he could only do his best and not hold it against those who were less inclined to be kind as he was. He wandered off the street into an art gallery. He wondered if one day his own works might be showcased in an establishment as well-lit and open as this one. “Its all so wonderful, isn’t it?” He wasn’t talking to anyone in particular, but he couldn’t let a day go by without appreciating the beauty that others could dream up.