Fabian Bishop @sir-fabian-bishop - Tumblr Blog

aspentracker:

“Like that night…or what I recall of it, I still believe that a camera lens is just as powerful as a hand. Is what you see not unique to you, Mr. Bishop?” she inquired, still rather adamant to prove her point that he seemed to not wrap his own head around. Moving to his true question she had to think for a minute.

Asking what subject matter she holds was almost an unfair question. She liked to switch up her art. To paint the same thing would be far too repetitive to her. While most of her paintings captured a lighter feel, the pieces she was currently working on were rather dramatic in color scheme and emotional response. “I really just paint whatever comes to my fancy. My creative process isn’t as complex as you’d might believe. To have such a hard definition of your own art I think can muddle room from growth or experimentation” she replied taking a sip of the water in front of her as he spoke.

His work seemed important. Far more than hers. She could commend him for that. Aspen kept out of the political sphere for the most part. Sure, there were particular things she felt strongly about - but being a woman who constantly seemed to question herself, she never spoke on any of the matters. “That’s a fancy title, it fits your fancy name” Aspen tried to make light of that serious position he seemed to have. “Dealing with the meddling of our politicians cannot be light work”

She presented a curious question to him, one that was able to wade through the thicket of the past and the present knowledge that those memories were shared, at least in part. He presumed to believe her recollection of the night would be incomplete in comparison to his. A bottle of champagne could cause damage, a haze to intervene and the like, as far as he had been told, anyhow. It left the argument posed untouched still, presented to him to be batted back with a refocused mind. "As far as vision is concerned, to those that are fortunate enough to have it, we are all capable of viewing the same subject in the same manner. Your coffee, for example, we both see that it is black, do we not? A stroke of a brush, however, would offer subtle distinction to it that is not seen, and therefore becomes uniquely tied to the artist's skill versus the mechanical tools one has bought."

His own drink of choice was tipped in, tea washing in, listening to her answer with a contemplative gaze. "Surely it cannot be that prone to whimsy," he spoke, as if the idea of spontanuity was parallel to cardinal sin. This was, however, her world. He was only a visitor to it, as much as he could desire to be the one looking out instead of in. "I suppose that is part of the myth of the muses, to ultimately surrender to their directions," he compromised with another glance thrown in her direction and another sip to mirror her own, as if easily persuaded by her actions.

It was unfamiliar territory to be pulled in opposing directions by her comment. One half tugged towards confusion while the other tripped into being unmistakably flustered, causing a mixture of a scoff and quiet laugh to fall from him. It was smoothed out by his hand, imaginary wrinkles ironed out against the tie around his neck as he reviewed the words in a clearer mindset. "The role is of great importance, but if you insist that the name is on par with it, I have no other option but to concede." The thinnest of smiles was offered, lest it grow before he straightened in his chair. "Needless to say, going to exhibitions such as yours provides a much needed escape at times."

#aspentracker

birdiedrke:

“fine, fine!” she waived off his speech with ease. talent she found, was a good word for luck. there was nothing to it. she stumbled into painting just as easily as she might have any other hobby. and for her learning, maybe it was just practice. “you’re right anyways.” she grabbed a spare canvas from where it was leaned in the corner, angling it against her hip as though she made a particularly sturdy easel. she did not, but she’d had more practice than her boss. pencil swiftly in hand to sketch what she could remember of the work. “we can make it a competition instead.” she never took either of them to be competitive, it was in her nature to tease not to actually try. besides, it was the furthest thing from ease she could think of.

“worse vasari has to log payroll tomorrow.” as though he wasn’t her boss, couldn’t just make her do it anyways. but he always complained about how she did it anyways. so if he lost, he could do it his way. she couldn’t have cared less. it was more about watching him do something that wasn’t paperwork. what were fabian bishop’s hobbies, what was he passionate about. he didn’t leave much of an internet footprint, despite her best efforts to track him. which just left these moments. “when life gives you lemons right!”

She was telling him he was right, and yet it sank to the bottom of his stomach like a stone. He was not foolish enough to fall under the spell of her empty words, but in spite of it, he could not justify saying anything more that would not provide them with more power. The leverage was never on his side, leaving him to remain ruffled in his seat, watching her with an aghast expression as she handled the canvas. In comparison, he had lined it up so particularly against the easel, one he had worked terribly hard at getting even against the floor. Here she was using her knees! "I have no interest in partaking in any game of yours." That was exactly what it was, too. It would not be a competition, more so a pastime of hers to stir the overflowing chaos that swaddled her entire existence, taking him into it with every chance that served her. "More so, it would hardly be a fair trial." Less confident by that statement, but he would not be bullied into speaking anything less, anything that would expose himself any more than what already had been.

"Please, do not refer to me by anything less than Mr. Bishop, Ms. Drake. We have discussed this on numerous occasions. It does not bear repeating." This was not the time to be humored, as if there was ever a suitable time for such trifling things. The latex gloves were neatly placed to the side, eyes still drifting over to see her work, a curiosity that could not be helped, a tinge of jealousy prickling his soul as much as his eyes. "Where did you study these techniques?" he asked with another shift of his head to get a better look, as casual as he could; the manner translated as stiff and transparent, a putrid mask worn. "This is not precisely in the same spirit as Vasari, but the alluded elements are there."

#birdiedrke

murdererbyproxy-deactivated2016

#fabian

birdiedrke:

“don’t be upset!” she chided, the veneer of civility still in tact. she was only curious, she was only ever curious. of course he would get all riled up over a smeared canvas being compared to one of the only artists that was still recognized by name nowadays. it was easy to see though, how he went from flushed to the same old fab she’d come to know. “practice makes perfect i hear.” and while the words are common, her smile betrays something of a more patronizing turn. how could it not. she’d never known her boss to be anything expect a master of paper work. artist did not often have the same feeling.

“old master!” she grabbed the canvas that he was trying to put away, putting it back on the easel so that she could take a look. “if you’re going for vasari, your orange is too bright.” she had no reason to believe that he would take her advice, or do anything other than try to shutter her out of the room. she was so often a child underfoot when it came to his work. but lucky for him, she didn’t stay at the job to be well liked. she did it for these odd little moments. where people revealed themselves without meaning to. “do you have a pencil? i’ll sketch you an outline to follow.” who was she if she wasn’t overbearing, pressing into his space and ruining whatever he had planned. it didn’t have to just be about the daily paperwork! “come on, it’ll be fun.”

"I am not upset," he snapped before reining in the very emotion he had denied, busying the attention of his gaze to his gloves as he began to roll them off his wrists. "You have caught me at a most inopportune time, and nothing more. The two circumstances have no bearing on each other." Always a being of tension, another screw tightened at her comment, one that cut from any other voice would have been encouraging; from her, it could be anything but from his point of view. Practice! What on earth was she trying to insinuate? "Thank you, Ms. Jennings. If your feedback ends there, you are free to take your leave--"

Naturally, a departure from his domain could not be attained so easily, leaving him to suck in his lips in the most sour expression that could temporarily transgress until professionalism dictated otherwise. "It is this execrable lighting that is giving you that impression," he defended as if he was trying to desperately keep her away from shredding the painting she was holding, the very one he was reaching out for, only to snatch it back up from the easel and hold to. "I hardly find that that will be necessary, Ms. Jennings. I am not in the mood to be given some juvenile measure of expression in the way of a paint-by-numbers activity. There is no shortcut when it comes to talent, nor is it born from the hands of those that believe it can be done with ease."

#well maybe you're just bad at it fabian ://///#birdiedrke

birdiedrke:

“oh no—off the clock i promise!” she held up her hands as though she was being interrogated, which to some extent she was. but she learned to endure the questions, find the room around them to joking. to a lighter situation, after all he was treating her as though she’d stumbled into something far more embarrassing than it was. painting as a hobby was nothing out of the ordinary for the community they found themselves in. “it’s a professional curiosity, nothing more.” she stepped in, shutting the door behind her. if he’d asked her to leave in so many words, she still would have found a reason to stay. “what are you doing?”

canvas, gloves, a strangely mixed shade of orange. “are you a muse mr. bishop?” she loved the rumors of what lurked, knew even if the idea was close to true, it certainly wasn’t the kind of thing that her boss believed in. there were no rules for immortals, no paperwork for them to file, it must have been so frustrating. “hiding your talents from the world?” she got closer, saw that the canvas had a single orange splotch. “no reference, that’s bold.” maybe it was the only way she knew, to trace original works and mimic their brush strokes. no piece of hers came from the kind of pure original inspiration there was supposed to be. maybe michaelangelo had done the sistine chapel without a second thought. she doubted it. “you going for pollock?”

Fabian had the type of anger that resided in a vexed rodent: utterly ineffective with a nose twitching and eyes simply staring in irritation, unable to meet ferality. "What I do in my time of leisure is nothing to concern you," he told her, as if the mostly blank canvas was not still hanging against the easel behind him, betraying him in every way but screaming at her. She had terrible timing! At any other given moment that he needed her, she was nowhere to be seen, and at the most inopportune times, she was lurking within an inch of his life, ready to drag him to meet his maker.

His face grew pigment, easy to spot with clean-shaven cheeks and raven-black hair to frame them. They were surely not meant to be complimentary, treacherously mocking in probability, but it hit him all the same. "No, I am most certainly not a Muse, Ms. Drake, as you should already be well-informed of," he mumbled as he turned away, aware of the heat that skidded along his face, only fueling his own discomfort with the situation. "/Jackson/ Pollock?" he repeated, mouth acting as though it had swallowed a lemon, flattery quickly replaced by offense. "Of course not! How on Earth would you ever get the impression that I would ever be inspired by that blunderbuss? Do you not see the influence of the old master's at work?" He looked back at the touched canvas, the splotch of putrid persimmon. With gloved hands, he took it off of the easel, hiding it from view as he lowered it. "It was only a means to practice, if you must know, and your input has been keenly noted."

#you know it would be very funny if he was a muse. too bad he's SHIT #nah... the gods thought all this time he was a modern artist when in fact he was trying very hard for old masters :/#birdiedrke

birdiedrke

@sir-fabian-bishop

she took the office job because it was always the best way to claim some sort of legitimate income. just on the radar enough, though if hard pressed she wasn’t even sure what contracting they did. she sent generic emails and took two hour lunch breaks, and she didn’t look for another job despite the uptight nature of her boss because she was simply too amused. she always knew where he was lurking in the building because despite his want for everything so meticulous, he was still just a fly caught in the web she spun. a completely harmless web, in which he was safe at all time, merely to be looked upon.

she opened door number one, actually surprised to see a paint tray out. though it was past five, maybe this was his hobby. “you always say no locked doors!” she greeted, as though it applied to every single door in the world, and not simply the door to her office. “what are you doing in here! don’t you know it’s quittin’ time?” she didn’t know what she’d been expecting, but who was she to turn down the sight of what looked to be her boss attempting to paint. “this doesn’t seem like paper work.”