#olvirsson

[mvntague]

☎ skdjsd

NAME: olvirsson

RINGTONE: high horse by kacey musgraves – ( ‘cause everyone knows someone who kills the buzz / every time they open up their mouth )

PICTURE:

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LAST TEXT SENT: [ read 11:19 pm ]

[yasmeendarwish-blog]

date and time: february 8th, sometime past noon location: the frick collection closed: @olvirsson

 -      Yasmeen cocked her head to the side and tried to look very, very fascinated in Jean-Baptiste-Camille Corot’s The Lake. There were only so many ways you could paint a neoclassical, idyllic French countryside and make it interesting. You could praise technical prowess and color variation as much as you pleased, but it would still be another painting of a valley hanging in an expensive frame. In any case, with her head cocked to the side, her chin resting flat against her fist, and the fanny pack slung across her hips, she seamlessly blended in with the Frick Collection’s other patrons. Mother’s hurrying their children along, bored teenagers snapping photos of the contorted figures, the occasional art history students engaged in voracious debate about Vermeer’s use of color.

This particular discussion took place just a few feet behind her, where Vermeer’s Mistress and Maid, stood proudly within its gilt frame. God. Her hands ached at the thought of it. It was the first of the soon-to-be-stolen-Vermeer’s that she had attempted, thinking that the scene of two women gossiping over a love letter would be relatively painless, at least compared to the other works she was tasked with recreating. Which it most certainly was not, and Yasmeen spent the better part of a month cursing the Dutch master’s name. And his, stupid, inane underpainting methods. All the while trying not to inhale the fumes from the lead-tin-yellow paints she’d acquired in the name of making her forgeries seem all the more realistic.

To her right stood Kit, a welcome distraction from the monotony of Corot’s composition. Of all the people she could have been paired with, Yasmeen was least averse to partnering up with Kit. Their relationship grew in the quiet margins, like ripples in still water after a pebble was thrown in. Somewhere along the way, between study sessions and horror films, they had stumbled into a happy medium between talking and not talking. Something that Yasmeen, who oftentimes stuttered over the right things to say, greatly appreciated.

Yaz nudged the other girl, sharp eyes following the security guard posted at the entrance of West Hall. A lanky man with an unfortunate receding chin who, at present, had shoved a finger up his nasal cavity. “What about him? How do you think this one spends his paycheck?” A guessing game had struck up between the two of them, beginning when Yaz pointed out that the guard who had rifled through their purses at the front of the Frick Collection gave off strong, foot fetishist. “My guess is that he looks like one of those people that like to dress in the animal suits - what are they called? The zooies?”